


Seen You Before

by kali_asleep



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: College, College AU, F/M, Frat Parties, Hate to Love, Roommates, Slow Burn, Teen!Dipper, Underage Drinking, University, older Twins, teen!Mabel, teen!Pacifica
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-26 10:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/pseuds/kali_asleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Pacifica's mind, there's only one thing worse than having Mabel Pines for a roommate: how often Dipper Pines seems to be hanging around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moving

She knows a full two weeks in advance, after the housing coordinator had handed her the room assignment with a perky "Gravity Falls, huh? I haven't been there since I was a kid! Is there still that junky old tourist trap?"

Two full weeks of dread as she unpacks the few suitcases and storage totes, as she meticulously applies her makeup before walking down to the nearly-empty dining hall ('It's a little unconventional,' the director of student affairs had said,staring down at the letter placed on her desk, 'we're still technically in Summer term, you know. But since it's you...'. She hadn't even needed to threaten to make a phone call.)

Two full weeks of poring over her textbooks and glancing up at the clock every few minutes, as if they would magically appear out of thin air. She had planned on being out of the room, somewhere, anywhere else on campus when they were slated to arrive, which is why she's thrown incredibly far off-kilter when the door to her dorm - their dorm - swings open three hours earlier than planned.

"Ah, home sweet home!" a voice rings out, just as another deeper voice goes "Mabel, did you actually _look_ at this thing?"

She has just enough time to pull her phone out and look bored before a typhoon of glitter and sunshine swirls through the door.

At first glance, Mabel Pines looks almost exactly like she did six years ago: all sweaters and elbows, a cloud of thick brown hair, a natural rosy glow under the freckles that dot her cheeks. In one hand, Mabel's got clutched what looks like a small Jack Russell terrier; she realizes, belatedly, that the other girl literally has a purse shaped like a puppy. In the other hand Mabel holds a smartphone that has been covered to each corner in multi-colored rhinestones. It looks as though she's been filming her trip to her dorm room, but the phone slowly sinks down when Mabel processes who is on the other side.

"P-Pacifica?"

Pacifica sighs and makes a show of looking up from her phone (as if she hadn't been sneaking looks from the moment Mabel strode in). She leans back a little on the couch of their common area and spreads her arms along the back, her disinterested show of dominance also serving to cover up the book she'd hastily dropped.

"Oh, it's you. What was it? Maple? Mabel?"

"It's Mabel," she says flatly, smile gone from her features. "Sorry to bug you Pacifica, they must have given me the wrong key doohickey. Have a nice day."

Mabel waves the little scanner key card to the dorm and turns on her heel, only to collide with the second person entering the room.

"Mabel, it says here you're rooming with Pacifica North- oof!"

Dipper Pines has pulled a whole head over his twin, which seems genetically convenient given the way Mabel plants herself headfirst into his chest and keeps trying to walk out despite being physically walled in by her brother. From the exasperated look he pulls, it seems like this move is a common one.

Compared to his twin, the years show on Dipper: not only has he pulled far above Mabel in height, but his face has lost the baby-roundness the two used to share. He sports a sensible blue v-neck and jeans, and paired - Pacifica would have never believed it - with his trimmed beard and moustache, he looks more Portland than pubescent.

"Hi, Pacifica," he says, waving slightly over his sister, and even though he's got to be 18 or close to it, Pacifica swears she hears his voice crack, just a smidge.

"Dipper," Pacifica says, letting just the right amount of disdain creep into her voice. Weirdly, he looks confused by her response, and is opening his mouth to say something when Mabel's muffled voice cuts in.

"Oh, so you'll remember his name but not mine."

Rolling her eyes, Pacifica goes back to her phone, tapping out some text to no one. "It's not like it's hard to remember a name that's so stu-"

She cuts herself off, because suddenly they're no longer alone: three adults, one familiar, enter the dorm room. Stan Pines and two people who must be the twins' parents look around the common area for a moment before focusing in on the teens. 

"You must be Mabel's roommate!" their mother coos. She glances at Mabel, head still pressed against Dipper's chest, and scoots past them to set a tray of baked goods on the small kitchenette table. 

"Is that the Northwest girl?" Stan grumbles. He's carrying a large cardboard box with the words "Knitting Supplies!" scrawled on it, though Pacifica notices the "Supplies" part has been crossed out and written over with "Surprise!". 

"What a pleasure to see you too, Mr. Pines," Pacifica says, honey and vinegar, and she stands up to shake hands with the twins' mother. 

The woman is tall, with bushy black hair and a pleasantly rounded face. A pair of tangerine colored horn-rimmed glasses perch atop a short, button nose, and the combination of cerulean poncho and red cowboy boots leaves no question as to where Mabel got her 'fashion sense'. 

"Pacifica Northwest," Pacifica says, smiling her most charming and holding her hand out.

"Margaret Tyrone-Pines," she says, and her grip is firm when they shake. "This is my husband, William." She gestures to the last man to enter the room, who is, as far as Pacifica can see, effectively a teetering tower of boxes with arms. "And it looks like you already know my Uncle-in-Law," she trails off with a question in her voice.

"Pacifica is from Gravity Falls, Mom," Dipper says. 

He looks down at the top of his twin's head, then leans in to whisper something to her. She mumbles back an unhappy-sounding response and lets him gently push her away and spin her to face Pacifica.

"Which room is mine, Pacifica?" Mabel asks glumly. 

"The one on the left," Pacifica says, standing up from the couch and picking her purse up from the floor. She's discreetly able to shove her book in. "Well, it was nice to see you, or whatever, but Fall Rush starts in a few days and I have a _lot_ of shopping to do still. Have fun moving - bringing boxes up three flights of stairs _must_ be just awful, I'm glad I had my staff do it for me."

She swans past the Pines family and out the door. She refuses to react when Mabel's voice carries down the hall:

"Moooom, I _cannot_ be roommates with her!"

...

Pacifica strolls slowly down the aisle, stopping occasionally when something catches her eye, pulling it out and scrutinizing it with a well-trained look. She doesn't know if she's ready to commit yet, but she keeps them in her arm regardless. After a few minutes, her arms get heavy, and she wheels back to the small table she's claimed as her own in the very back corner of the Law Library. 

Books hit the table with a satisfying thud as she empties her arms. A quick glance at her phone reveals three new text messages from her father's PA, reminding her of the "required Sororities to fraternize with in the upcoming week". Sighing, she powers down her phone and settles in for the next few hours. 

...

"How was shopping?"

Almost surprisingly, Mabel is still there, tacking up metallic paper stars in the shape of her name on her bedroom door. A mere courtesy, the question sounds neither friendly nor interested.

Pacifica sets her purse on the table and enters their small kitchen. It's just a few square feet of tile, a stove, a sink and a refrigerator, and it's from there that Pacifica pulls a chilled bottle of water. That and a single pear are all that graces Pacifica's side of the fridge, which she realizes Mabel has ever-so-kindly delineated with a thin strip of colored tape. Mabel's side of the fridge, naturally, is already overflowing with white bread and peanut butter and ketchup and lunch meat and whatever else kind of tripe (Pacifica prefers _foie gras_ ) the other girl considered "sustenance".

"Expensive, as always," Pacifica says with a high laugh. Mabel looks over her shoulder to her, and they both realize her mistake at the same time.

"Where are your bags and stuff?" Mabel asks, eyeing Pacifica's purse and her conspicuously empty hands. 

Pacifica's mind stutters for a split second, but she's almost immediately back on track, flapping a hand at the other girl with a contemptuous, "Oh, I had them box it up and send it to me. No use paying for designer if you're going to have to carry them yourself."

The feint works, for the time, though Mabel's eyes narrow, and Pacifica makes note that Mabel’s childhood designation as “the weird girl” didn’t mean she was a total idiot.

"So, let me guess," Pacifica says, deftly changing subjects, "you put down Gravity Falls as where you lived so you could get in-state tuition?"

"Yeah," Mabel says with a sniff. She turns back to her door and continues decorating her door. "Grunkle Stan's getting old, and besides, they have a better fashion and design program here."

"Than in California?" she asks, incredulous. 

Pacifica must have hit a nerve, because Mabel says nothing. She forcefully sticks another star onto her door. 

"So let _me_ guess," Mabel finally mutters, " _you_ put down your parents' names and got in here no problem."

Oh. She's good. Pacifica's lucky that Mabel has her back to her, or she wouldn't have been able to respond so flippantly.

"Yeah, _something_ like that."

"What I'm trying to figure out," Mabel continues, "Is why you aren't in your own apartment or a private dorm or something."

Again, she's fortunate Mabel can't see her. She struggles to sound aloof as she responds with "Father and Mother thought it best for me to experience life with 'normal' people. After all, I've got to know how to interact with the people I'm going to run one day."

"Pft, good to know you've got your priorities straight."  
…

The next day she gets a note saying she's got a package waiting at the housing area desk. Mabel, in the kitchen blending something that looks like kiwi and gummy bears, makes a comment about how nice it must be for Pacifica to get her own packages - she's always going to have to share _hers_ with Dipper. Pacifica refrains from any expected snide comment as she's realized over night, much like Mabel likely had, that there was no way of getting out of their rooming situation.

The dress in the box is the first new piece of clothing she's had in almost a year - deep navy with a gauzy silver overlay, draping and the top and meant to be fitted from her waist to her knees. It's gorgeous, and a size too big. Pacifica ponders whether the poor sizing was intentional, or of her father's PA is losing her touch. After all, she knows how much Pacifica is able to spend. There's still time to get it tailored, but it would have to be a rush order, and time means money. She contemplates Mabel's handmade sweaters and puppy purse, and almost asks the girl if there was a sewing machine in one of the piles of boxes her family moved in.

Almost asks. In the end, Pacifica opts for the path of spite and wear the dress to the first major rush event, wrong size and all.

...

She almost leaves the minute she sees Dipper Pines in the corner, red solo cup in hand. He looks like he just freshly stepped off the express train from Dorktown and missed the “Dress to Impress” line along the way: his hair, pathetically slicked back with water, has started raising up in poofy tufts, and the bow tie he’s clipped haphazardly to the buttonhole of his store-brand polo is not only covered in hot pink dinosaurs, but hopelessly askew. Nonetheless, there’s a small circle of brothers from the frat hosting the party that have gathered around him, and they all laugh and go in for high fives when Dipper finishes whatever he’s saying. Pacifica lets the vice president of the chapter put a drink in her hand and usher her into the next room before she lets herself think about how different Dipper looks clean shaven. 

Most of the boys from the frat recognize her even though it’s her first time there; more importantly, the sisters from the two or three top-tier Sororities that have been invited to the party come up to her with open arms and the squealing of her name, even though she’s never met most of them.

“Pacifica!” one of them cries out, a fellow blonde a few years older than her. “Can I call you Paz? I know it’s been years, you probably don’t remember but-”

“Uh, of course!” she says, nailing the perfect amount of excited hauter, “From Daddy’s tennis club on the island.”

The truth is, she doesn’t remember the girl whose nametag unhelpfully reads “Janelle”, but Pacifica’s been trained at people and knows crisscross of uneven natural tanning along the girl’s bare shoulders and the heft of muscle in her left arm. Pacifica is, obviously, completely correct, and learns that Janelle is the events chair for one of the houses on her father’s list. 

Prospective pledges aren’t technically supposed to drink during Rush Week at these things, but as Pacifica moves from person to person, introducing herself to crowds of people who already know her and allowing herself to be blatantly courted by the members of different sororities, she finds that one hand is never empty as brother after brother brings her cups of warm, foamy beer. There are, Pacifica begrudgingly admits to herself, moments when being a Northwest has its perks, and she allows herself to indulge in it just this once. The evening passes, the music gets louder, and the harsh, constantly nagging voice in the back of her head dials down. 

“And so we’re all like, totally blitzed out on my dad’s boat and this fuckwad decides it’d be a great time to throw his iPhone 6 overboard-”

She laughs a split second too late, the beer finally getting to her, but the two boys she’s sandwiched between on the leather loveseat in the great room are too wrapped up in their own story to notice. They’re both sophomores, she thinks, and one of them mentioned interning once for her father’s marketing coordinator, but she hadn’t bothered to remember their generic, just-a-shade-too-north-of-Valley Boy names. What she does remember, though, is the houses and relative chapter positions of the two or three older girls glaring at her from the other side of the room, who are clearly affronted by that rushee talking to our friends even if she is Pacifica Northwest. 

“If you’ll excuse me, boys,” she says, slipping off the small couch, “I’m going to get another drink.”

Both of them jump up in perfect unison, stumbling over themselves and each other while offering to fill up her cup. She waves them off with a laugh and a wink and, _damn_ , is she good at this. Winding her way back to the kitchen proves to be a more serious endeavor than expected, continually stopped as she is by requests for small talk and selfies. 

There’s only one person at the keg in the center of the kitchen, and he’s leaned over and fiddling with the tap. Pacifica sidles over to someone she vaguely recognizes and chats for a few minutes before realizing it’s taking the guy at the keg far too long to fill up. So she does the only logical thing and goes up to him.

“Need some help there, champ?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Thanks.”

If Pacifica had been paying attention, if she’d had her wits truly about her, she wouldn’t have been surprised when the kid who turned from the keg was Dipper, but of course she’s a few beers in and has managed to successfully avoid him (was that what she was doing?) up until this point. As such, she _is_ shocked by his doofy half-grin and the way he nervously rubs the back of his neck with one hand while holding the tap with the other.

“I don’t know what strange voodoo this thing operates under, but it’s got me stumped,” he says, and if to prove his point, he presses down on the tap nozzle. A weak stream of foam slugs out and onto his shoe before he can stop it; Pacifica plucks the tap out of his hand with a sharp “Uh, ew.”

She’s not sure if it’s the beer, or their past, or the fact that he’s literally the only boy here whose name she knows, but Pacifica makes what she is sure is a terrible decision and talks to him.

“First rodeo, Pines?”

He watches her as she wraps her hand around the top of the tap pump and plunges it down.

“Yeah,” he says, laughing a little, though his eyes are still fixed on her motions. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I didn’t get invited to many parties in high school and, eh, I’m not exactly a pretty girl who has someone always getting their drinks for them.”

“Really? And here I thought you were some party big shot…” she mutters sarcastically, but it’s meant to be loud and be heard. When she’s done pumping she grabs a cup and pours him a beer. 

“Did you catch how I did that?” she asks as he takes the cup from her. “Because I’m not bailing you out again. If you’re going to start showing up at these things-” Pacifica draws a little circle with a finger in the air, “-you’re going to need to at least act like you don’t have some kind of debilitating social disease.”

Dipper _laughs_. 

“Yup. I will walk away from this experience with a newfound ability and the crushing emasculation that comes along with being shown up by Pacifica Northwest at my first frat party.” 

He rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer. When he pulls the cup away from his face, Pacifica sees that a fleck of beer foam has dotted the tip of Dipper’s nose. She stares at him, letting all of her disdain seep into her face, until he sighs and goes, “There’s something on my nose, isn’t there?”

Dipper pulls up the collar of his shirt and wipes his nose with it; the look of disgust she’s been shooting him deepens.

“Isn’t not having head on a beer a good thing?” he asks, looking down into his cup. “Like, that’s a thing, right? People are all ‘Oh, look at me, I can pour a beer with no head’.” He lets loose a laugh, more awkward this time, as Pacifica continues to stare.

“Ew, I forgot how much of a peasant you were, Pines. I’m going to go before you completely ruin my reputation.”

She pours herself a beer as Dipper responds with a sarcastic, “Oh, right, _so_ sorry, wouldn’t want to get nerd all over you. Though it looks like _you’re_ doing wonders for _my_ reputation.”

Glancing around the kitchen, Pacifica saw a number of people looking between the two of them, sizing up Dipper, whispering behind raised cups. 

“Maybe I should just stick around,” Dipper says with a shrug, stepping away from the keg and towards her. Pacifica turns and starts walking away, letting her words drift back to him.

“For the third and final time tonight: ew. Later, dork!” 

…

The numbers on her phone float and bob in front of her; she’s not sure if it’s because her head is swimming or her hands aren’t still, but it makes her feel nauseous, a sensation that’s not helped by the slow realization that she’s midway through dialling a number that will not pick up for _her_. Pacifica curses and clears the screen and pretends to be texting when a few people from the party stumble down the stairs of the house and onto the sidewalk. They all wave goodnight to her but she ignores them, even at the expense of tomorrow’s whispers, which might decry her as a ‘total bitch’. But she’s not a bitch, it’s just that the thought of rapid movement makes her dizzy right now, is all. 

One of the boys had offered to let her crash at the house, and while she hadn’t said no yet, she was pretty sure, even in her fairly inebriated state, that he wasn’t talking about letting her sleep on the couch. She wrinkles her nose at the thought, because at some point that night she’d accidentally tripped her way into one of the boys’ rooms and _ugh_ , guys were just gross.

It’s well past 2 a.m., and while Pacifica isn’t looking forward to the walk across campus in her treacherously cute high heels, she’s definitely not going to let herself become grain for the gossip mill by sleeping over at a frat the second night of rush. With a groan of determination, she pushes herself up onto her feet and wobbles down the steps.

“Hey, Pa-Pacifica!”

Dipper nearly trips on his way down the steps, and when he hits the sidewalk he’s swaying noticeably.

“What?” she tries to snap, but her words come out mushy.

“Are you going back to Mabel’s?”

“You mean _my_ dorm, the place where _I_ live?”

“Uh, yeah, there.”

Pacifica stares at him for a long second, trying to gauge what was happening. It was difficult, with the world very inconveniently tilted at an awkward angle and her brain operating at the speed of jelly.

“Yes,” she finally said.

The boy runs a hand through his hair, and Pacifica doesn’t know if he’s trying to look cool or just tame the ridiculous floof perched above his head, but both possibilities fail and he ends up pushing his bangs back at a weird angle.

“Can I come? I mean, walk with you? I’m going there anyway.”

Her eyes narrow as she tries to focus on the boy’s face, but it’s slightly blurred.

“You have something on your head,” she says, even though she’s pretty sure she’d told her mouth to say “No.”

His eyes roll up, as if he were trying to look at whatever it was she’d spotted on his forehead. Unsuccessful, Dipper instead raises his hand and wipes it over before going, “Oh, yeah, that’s my birthmark.”

They’ve started walking, though Pacifica isn’t quite sure when it happens. Her second attempt at focusing on his face also fails. They walk in silence for nearly a minute before Dipper, nervous and inebriated, breaks it. 

“It’s the Big Dipper,” he says, and with a finger he traces a pattern that completely misses all of the spots on his forehead and ends up confusing her more than she already was.

“Just looks like a bunch of big, dumb dots to me,” Pacifica says with a sniff. 

Dipper opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, decidedly fish-like in Pacifica’s mind. She can’t help the giggle that escapes, and when Dipper hears it, he looks like he’s just slain a dragon or won the lottery. 

The unsteady click of Pacifica's heels is for a time the only sound that follows them as they cross campus. She's resolutely focused on putting one foot in front of the other and not looking at the boy walking alongside her. Only once does she fail: she glances back on him and nearly trips over an uneven slab of sidewalk. She's sure Dipper's about to say something up until the moment she hears him fumble over it as well.

Campus is dark and empty in the early hours, the way Pacifica prefers it. A cool breeze shifts through the trees, causing branches and leaves to play over the orange glow of the lamp posts that line the school's main road. It's enough to draw her mind from the ache of her shoes, her increasing need to pee, and how strange it is that Dipper following her back to her (okay, his sister's) dorm is not strange. 

"I was gonna say something about philosophers... and, uh, stars," Dipper says suddenly, slurring ever so slightly. 

"Huh?"

"When you... Uh, were talking about dots and, yeah, that. It was going to be so clever."

"Ugh, save the uh... Platitudes for someone who cares. Who is also sober."

She's startled when Dipper lets out a sudden groan.

"I'm _way_ more drunk than I thought," he says, anguished. "Mabel is going to _kill_ me."

He begins slapping his own face lightly, murmuring "Sober, Dipper, sober," under his breath.

Pacifica glances at him, curious. He face swims a little, but for the first time since their walk started, she's able to focus on him. Unlike her companion, she must be sobering up, at least a little. 

"Dipper, seriously, if this is your first time drinking, and given what a lame-o you are, it probably is, then you're doing _much_ better than most people."

He runs his hands through his hair anxiously, making it that much more ridiculous, but at least he's stopped hitting himself. 

"Hey!" he sputters, "I'm not - but really? Thanks! But also, hey!"

His indignation trails off, but he quickly follows up with, "That's why I'm following you, 'cause Mabel made me promise I'd check in with her after the party. Not because I'm a creeper and am following you. Twin thing, you know? But now you didn't have to walk alone."

"I don't know if I should be disappointed you're not creeping on me or flattered," Pacifica says, though she's pretty sure she meant to say something like "stop being a gross weirdo". Dipper's chuckle is soft and somewhat nervous, but he doesn't say anything else until they're hiking up the stairwell to Pacifica's dorm room.

"You know... I'd always wondered..." his voice is light and wavering. Pacifica with two or three fewer beers would have been able to predict what was coming, but as has become the trend that night, Dipper Pines manages to surprise her.

"I thought we really got along that one night, you know? At the mansion with your parents' party? I mean, you pretty much saved my life and I'd kind of thought after that... That we were cool or something. I guess it was too much to expect to hang out but... I dunno, I was just wondering... Why after that..." 

She bites the inside of her cheek and prays his rambling question will last until they get to the door of her room, because even sobering up she's too drunk for that and _of course_ Dipper would lack any kind of sense or tact or-

"Where have you been, young man?"

Pacifica nearly sinks to the hallway floor in shocked relief. Mabel is standing outside of their room, hands on her hips, glaring at her brother. Her question had been quiet, though it looked like she wanted to yell, but the force of her words carried down the hallway just fine. Dipper pales and tugs at his collar, but doesn't stop walking.

"Get inside," Mabel hisses, "And we are going to have a _long_ talk, mister."

The bright, cartoonish kitten that adorns Mabel's knee-length night shirt and the fluffy lime green socks she's wearing do nothing to soften the severity of the way she stares Dipper down. He hangs his head as she moves from the door to let him enter the room. Nonetheless, Pacifica can't help but admire the absurdity of the moment: as Mabel turns around and stomps back inside, the little white pom-poms on the heels of her socks shakes manically. Pacifica giggles, and immediately regrets in when Mabel snaps back around to glare at her.

"You too, young lady," she says, pointing into the living area. "Let's go."

Pacifica rolls her eyes and enters, heading straight for her room before Mabel can start in on _her_. Through the thin dorm walls, Pacifica can hear them talking - Mabel's voice raises, upset, while Dipper's low tones are conceding, apologetic. 

She pulls off her dress and leaves it in a heap on the floor. Pajamas are a tank top and shorts that double as workout wear - she reaches for her makeup removing wipes, but then hesitates, figuring she's already letting the Pines twins see her in the level of disarray. Best to keep up a semblance of appearances.

"Mabel, I'm perfectly fine," Dipper is saying as Pacifica pads barefoot into the living room. 

"Yes, I drank more than I thought but it was a party. You can't tell me you're actually surprised."

"No..." she says forlornly. "I guess I just got worried and all up in my head that something would happen."

Pacifica opens the fridge and pulls out bottled water and that pear she'd been meaning to eat. As much fun as it might be to stay and watch the Pines drama unfold, she remembers she's got lunch 'interviews' at one of the houses tomorrow. Funny, how they plan those.

"But you need to be more careful!" Mabel says, temper starting to flare again. "You're underage, and if the cops had come, or the university people, or what if you'd gotten into a drunken monkey fist fight with a _frat bro_ , your arms are like noodles-"

She's clearly getting herself worked up, and no amount of Dipper's calming seems to be working. It's Pacifica's cue to retreat to her room, and her hand is on the door knob when Mabel spins to face her.

"And you, Pacifica!" she says, sounding scandalized. "You shouldn't be out drinking and partying underage either. Those kinds of things are supposed to be _all_ sorts of trouble for young college girls, and while some frat bender is probably more your scene than Dipper's, that doesn't mean you should feel peer pressured into-"

What was it with those twins and rambling? 

"Later, Mabel," Pacifica says, starting to tune her out. She's opening up her bedroom door and stepping in when Mabel asks:

"And what about your _reputation_? Upholding the honor of the Northwest family name?"

She stops dead. Slowly, she turns to look at the twins. Mabel is staring at her fiercely, but Dipper's behind her, already reaching for his sister's shoulder. Something unexpected must cross Pacifica's face, because Dipper's eyes widen and Mabel's strong front flickers.

Afterwards, she'll castigate herself for slipping, for letting the alcohol interfere with her sense. But in the moment, she says the exact words that run through her mind.

"Fuck the Northwest family name," she says flatly. She slams the door to her room, and locks it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mabel is an adult, and Dipper and Pacifica are two giant, angsty babies. 
> 
> Warnings for mentions of drug paraphernalia and underage drinking. I support safe, legal, and responsible consumption of alcohol. Yup.

It's the ping of a notification on her phone that wakes her, and when she checks it she can't help but think for a split second that she must still be drunk. It's a text alert from her bank - about the only entity she gets texts from, anymore - notifying her of a deposit to her account. Two thousand dollars, putting the value of all Pacifica's assets to a total of around two thousand and twenty-three dollars and forty two cents. Moments later she gets a second text from the only other entity that ever seems to text her: her father's PA. "For sorority dues ONLY" it reads. 

With a disgusted sigh, she throws her phone back on her night stand. Her lunch interview at the first house doesn't start for another three hours, meaning she's got two and a half more hours to spend sleeping in. Pacifica rolls over and squeezes her eyes shut.

...

She's barely into her thirteenth year when it happens, and it makes her wonder if there's some truth behind 13 being an unlucky number, as it's only a few months after her birthday that her entire world collapses.

For all intents and purposes, thirteen should have been the start of a dynasty, the beginning of the Age of Pacifica Northwest. Wealthy, attractive, talented, and popular to the people that mattered, she was the living embodiment of the teenage dream. Her father was beginning to groom her to take over the Northwest conglomerate, and her mother was beginning to groom her to perfection. At the time, it was everything she wanted, and if perhaps the glaring flaws of her lifestyle occasionally glared too hard, well, there were always diamonds.

Pacfica doesn't blame the Pines twins. She did at first. She screamed about them for the first five hours after she'd heard the heavy clunk of the lock to her bedroom door being turned from the outside. She'd quietly cursed them as tears streamed down her face, as she wiped snot from her nose with the back of her white silk gloves. It didn't last long, however, because Pacifica was old enough, had seen enough of what went on behind the gilded doors of the Northwest Mansion to know that it wasn't two twelve-year-old kids ruining her life. So when her father finally came to the door and unlocked it, finally made her stand trial for what she'd "done", Pacifica didn't back down, didn't throw Dipper and Mabel under the bus like her father had expected.

And so it is following the summer of her thirteenth year that Pacifica is shipped east, to an all-girl's boarding school that primarily serves as a holding cell for the troubled children of the rich and the famous. Her roommate for the first year is the hypomanic daughter of a famous director, and she teaches Pacifica how to carve a bong from any piece of fruit (though they never actually _use_ them) and instills in her a deep love of science fiction. Things nearly become acceptable until the end of the year, when her parents learn that she's flourishing. 

When they send her back after a summer holed up in the mansion, Pacifica learns that her old roommate's father has "realized the value" of her being back home, and removed Pacifica's only friend from the school. Since that makes for an uneven number of girls, Pacifica has the "privilege" of living alone. It remains that way for the next four years, even as girls come and go and the numbers even. From her second roommate, Loneliness, Pacifica learns. She learns and learns and learns.

...

"Good afternoon, Pacifica!" 

Pacifica startles at the loud voice that rings across the dorm. 

"Good... Afternoon, Mabel," she says, pulling her bedroom door closed and quickly locking it.

Mabel's bent over in their small kitchen, looking for something in the refrigerator. When she stands, Pacifica sees that she's still in her long sleep shirt.

"You look nice today!" Mabel says, and she's _practically screaming_ when she does. She slams the fridge door shut, then opens one of the cabinets above to counter and pulls out a frying pan with a clatter. 

"Oh. Um. Thanks," Pacifica responds, taken off guard by Mabel's unexpected friendliness. "I guess," she tacks on, barely remembering to layer in the disdain.

"Where are you going?" her roommate shout-asks, forcefully closing the cabinet with a resounding _crack_.

"Why are you yel-" Pacifica starts to ask instead, but then she see it. 

Sprawled out on the couch under a single bed sheet is Dipper. He's pulled one of the couch cushions out and is clutching it over his head. Pacifica might be imagining it, but she's _pretty_ sure she hears him groaning faintly under all of the noise Mabel is making. 

"Oh, just going over to Sorority Row for lunch," she responds, raising her voice. "The top houses there are interviewing the girls they want to join, so naturally they all asked _me_ to come out."

By the time she finishes her sentence, Pacifica is almost shouting as well. She's not sure what's more worth it: the pleased shock on Mabel's face, or the now very audible groan coming from the couch. 

"I just needed to heat up some water first," Pacifica continues. 

Mabel can see that Pacifica grabs neither cup nor water as she crosses over to the microwave perched on the kitchen counter. Pacifica jabs at some random numbers on the machine, each press create a high-pitched beep. She then presses "start" and lets the microwave whir and rattle. Mabel watches her with a growing look of what appears to be confusion and awe - a few seconds later, the microwave goes off with a screeching series of beeps. 

"I hate you both!" Dipper moans from the couch, and he attempts to pull the cushion even further over his head.

"Well, that's all I needed," Pacifica says, walking over to the dorm door. "I'll be back later."

She swings the door open, steps out, then pulls it shut, hard. The slamming sound echoes down the hallway, but isn't loud enough to drown out Dipper's angry shout from the other side.

...

"So, what do you plan on studying?" the president asks, friendly. 

She and the other girls all smile with teeth and watch her intently. In her mind they look a little like sharks honing in on spilt blood. No, not quite - they look like any humans might look if someone set $2000 dollars in front of them and starting saying "Wait for it... Wait for it...".

Pacifica deliberates on her answer, taking a sip of her tea to give her time. Takes a moment to consider how much will get back to her parents. She sets her tea down and sends them the same smile back.

" Oh, who knows! I keep changing my mind - maybe education, or psychology, or business or something. All I know is that I can't wait to find the best new sisters to add to my family."

They all laugh and sigh happily in near-unison, Pacifica included. The serious questioning from the leadership of the sorority breaks down into idle chit chat, mainly directed at Pacifica. In between questions and topics, Pacifica nibbles on as many of the small sandwiches and pieces of fruit as possible without attracting undue attention. It seems to work, and by the end of the lunch interview, Pacifica is smiling at them like they just might be her meal ticket.

...

Both Mabel and Dipper are gone when she returns a few hours later. Pacifica trots over to the kitchen and opens the fridge, already knowing she'll find nothing on her side of the line. With a sigh, she closes the door, and that's when she notices the string of notes stuck together with her name written in big, swirling letters at the top. She plucks it off, and honestly, she didn't even know that sparkly post-it notes were a thing. She suspects that they weren't, at least not until they encountered Mabel.

_**Pacifica,**_ it reads, _**hope you had a nice lunchy thing or bidding war or whatever it was. That's something frats do, right? Bidding wars? Never mind, Dipper has just ever so kindly informed me that it's "Bid Day" not a "Bidding War" and that you're trying out for a "Sorority". He's also just informed me that it's called " rushing". What a helpful guy! *eye roll***_ ,

Pacifica can't help but snort at the written action. She could practically hear Mabel's voice in her head - everything Mabel did was just so... Mabel.

_**ANYWAY, Dipper is feeling the cold, hard hand of righteousness right now (he calls it a hangover, I call it justice), so we went on an adventure to the pharmacy in town. We're taking the bus, so hopefully we don't die.** _

_**See you later!** _

_**P.S.** _

_**You looked really nice after the party last night, even if you were a little drunk. I noticed how pretty and shiny your dress was - beautiful! - but it looked a bit big on you. Don't get me wrong, you rocked it! But... I have a sewing machine and if you ever want I can bring in that dress for you. It'd be no big deal, and I've got a pretty good eye so you can just leave it on the couch or whatever. I've always wanted to work on something designer!** _

_**I realized that we hadn't exchanged numbers yet, and it might be important if one of us gets locked out or something. Text me at the number below, and I'll save yours!** _

_**Later,** _

_**Mabel** _

Pacifica sits down on the couch heavily, limbs suddenly feeling limp. She stares at the note, rereads it, shakes her head, and rereads it again. 

Maybe... Maybe this wouldn't be completely terrible.

She pulls her phone out of her purse, and begins to type.

...  
Saturday rolls around, and while Pacifica is thrilled to be two days out from the start of the school year, two days out from the real first day of her life, it's clear from the way the upperclassmen are downing shots at the frat's long kitchen counter that not everyone feels similarly.

She hadn't planned on coming out - Bid Day started early the next morning, and she'd hear from a number of sisters of multiple houses that the week following was the hardest week for any new pledge. Convenient, really, that it would coincide so neatly with the first week of classes. Still, she plans accordingly: after the first beer is handed to her in the doorway, she manages to waltz off to the kitchen and swap her drink for soda without attracting any notice.

So, of course, as soon as she steps away from long line of booze and mixers, she turns right into the chest of Dipper Pines. For a moment she feels paralyzed - how did he get so close without her noticing? - but that passes almost immediately, and she steps back with an annoyed look on her face. A trace of his cologne wafts back with her, and - oh. 

Mabel must have been involved in dressing him that night; it wouldn't have been so obvious had Pacifica not seen him at the first party. Before, she would have never given the eccentric girl credit for fashion or styling but the boy standing before her was. Oh.

His hair had been slicked to control his usually frizzy mop of brown hair, and his bangs pulled forward perfectly to conceal most of his birthmark yet still look trendy. Pacifica suspected the magic of makeup in evening out the rest of his forehead and skin. Dipper had donned a well-fit dress shirt, deep crimson and definitely left intentionally unbuttoned low enough to reveal a bit of chest. He'd rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, likely the one thing Mabel had not done, as the folds were messy and a little uneven. Slim, tailored khakis and a pair of brown dress shoes completed the ensemble. Dipper looked good. 

Pacifica shakes her head slightly, immediately trying to clear the thought. More accurately, Dipper looked like a model frat boy, and it was disconcerting enough to make her think, for a split second-

Thankfully for her, Dipper ruins in the minute he opens her mouth.

"Well uh, fancy seein' you here, lil' lady," he says, doing what must be his worst cowboy impression. He tips an invisible hat at her, provoking an eye roll.

"Yeah, weird," she responds, and no, there was never _anything_ attractive about Dipper Pines _ever_ , "It's almost like we're trying out to be a part of some small, exclusive social circles that always seems to party together! What. A. Coincidence!"

Pacifica's expression is more sneer than smile, and Dipper notices. His grin droops, ever-so-slightly, and he takes a sip of his drink to cover his hesitation. When he finishes and speaks again, it's with significantly less gusto.

"Well, I certainly couldn't skip out on my last chance to make an impression, could I? Gotta make sure I get into the best house..." he trails off, and Pacifica can't be sure over the loud music and reverberating conversation that fills the room, but she swears he mutters a forlorn "Oh whatever" a moment later.

"I'm surprised you even bothered to show up," she says, airily. "After Thursday night I didn't think Mom would let you out again."

Dipper's brow furrows at that, and he shoots back with a testy, "Mabel is _not_ my mom. If anything, I'm the mom of the two of us."

"Yeah, okay, I don't even want to _think_ about that," she says, and she sidesteps him, moving past to leave the kitchen. There's schmoozing to do, as it is.

"I'm just trying to be friendly, Pacifica," Dipper says, exasperated. "You're my sister's roommate after all."

She prays he doesn't notice _her_ hesitation. Pacifica has to remind herself that it's worth it, that it's all part of what she's got to do.

"Well then, try somewhere else," she says sweetly. She smiles, and leaves him, shocked, in the kitchen.

...

Belatedly, she remembers that Dipper, even as a kid, was never one to back down from a challenge. So when Pacifica had said 'try somewhere else', Dipper had apparently taken that to mean 'try someone else _everywhere_ else'. 

Just like some sitcom or trope-filled, tacky cartoon, Pacifica had just been taking a sip of her drink (still soda) when she saw it: Dipper, one hand at the waist of one of the sorority sisters at the party, the other winding through her hair, playing through thick, red ringlets. He was leaning over her, face very close to hers, and Pacifica was saved from seeing him duck down and kiss her by the sudden spit-take Pacifica couldn't stifle. The cloud of Sprite droplets were still raining down when Pacifica turned and left the room. She headed for the porch in the backyard, determining she could probably use at least one beer.

The night proceeds like this: Pacifica shifts to a new room, chatting up prospective sisters and refilling her one beer. A few minutes later she happens to turn around, only to find that she's being pursued by some freakish two-backed monster sporting mismatched red-and-brown hair and a frankly inappropriate conjoined tongue. She flees to another room and refills her one beer, but the beast finds her once more.

"Whoa, newbie better watch himself!"

Pacifica looks up from her cup into the face of one of the brothers she hadn't realized was talking to her. He jabs her in the side with an elbow and points at Dipper and the girl, _as if Pacifica hadn't already seen enough_ , then laughs. 

"Please tell me there's some kinda house rule for being that disgusting in public," she says flatly. 

"Nah," the boy says, "A bro's gotta do what a bro's gotta do. Thing is, that girl there - Lillian, from Delta - she's Jeremy's ex."

Pacifica raises an eyebrow, a silent question.

"Jeremy, the recruiting chair? He's the one who passes the pledge names on to the VP and Prez. Now, I'm not saying anything about Jeremy, but if I were in charge like that, I wouldn't want some kid who was making out with _my_ ex in _my_ house to suddenly be one of my brothers. Just doesn't sit right," he finished sagely.

The information is filed in Pacifica's mind, tucked away until an opportune time. His words give her some ideas, though, and with a degree of effort she'd never admit to anyone else (let alone herself), she pulls her attention away from Dipper and the other girl and refocuses her smile on the boy next to her.

"So, what kinds of things _do_ sit well with you?" she asks.

His grin in response is all the encouragement she needs. She takes a slight step closer, smiles, meets his eyes.

"Well if you're all that interested, let me get you a drink and then let's head to the living room couch and discuss this more..." 

...

"I hope you're not waiting up for your dumb brother."

Surprisingly, Mabel takes the affront to her twin with no protest. The reason is made clear almost immediately when Mabel responded with a, "Yeah, he's basically an idiot. What'd he do this time?"

Pacifica had chosen not to spend the night with the boy who'd given her insight into the frat politics. Scott, as he'd introduced himself, was apparently well-versed in the intricacies of Greek life, as well as all of the major players, and had offered his number up easily in exchange for an eager ear. Pacifica had listened carefully as Scott casually flayed wide the lives of each brother and sister that passed, and by the end of the night, she'd left him with a kiss and the hopes of meeting up again. It was complete coincidence that she evacuated the party just as Dipper and his partner had found a comfortable spot on a nearby loveseat. Pacifica refused to stick around to gauge the outcome, though by the way both sets of hands were straying, she doubted their night would be ending with the end of the frat party. Gross.

"Well, last time I saw him, he was halfway down someone else's throat."

Mabel, who was knitting on the couch at the time Pacifica entered their dorm, suddenly jumps up, scattering her long, sharp needles and a lapful of sparkly yellow yarn.

"Oh shit, was it a Harkie?" she yelps, frantically untangling herself from the mess. 

"A what?" Pacifica asks, sidestepping out of the other girl's path as she rushes over to the fridge and pulls out ketchup, liquid smoke, and a roll of sushi. As Mabel leans in to dig through the fridge, Pacifica can't help but notice a mark on Mabel's wrist - something simple, a strong shape, but gone so quickly that Pacifica never manages to ask about it.

"Harkie," Mabel says absently, shoving the food into a plastic bag, “Half-Harpy, Half-Selkie. Absolutely beautiful, with the added bonus of a jaw that unhinges.”

She darts from the kitchen, pulls her purse and phone from the pile of yarn, and makes her way to the door.

“Dipper pissed off a clutch of them a few summers ago, and they’ve been trying to track him down and ingest him ever since. I gotta-”

Pacifica’s brain finally catches up with the nonsense coming from Mabel’s mouth, and she cuts the other girl off.

“No no no, Mabel, I meant he was making out. With a girl. At the party. He had his tongue down her throat."

She can't tell if it is relief or disappointment that marks Mabel's face then. 

"Ohhhhh..." Mabel says, making a face. "Gross. Who would want to kiss Dipper? Have you seen him?"

"Mabel, you're twins."

Mabel shuffles back over to the fridge, opens in, and looks forlornly at the strange assortment of food she's shoved into the bag.

"Yeah, but I'm clearly the cuter one. Dipper's got that lame scratchy beardy stuff, not to mention an Adam's apple, which is just... Weird. And now I'm going to have to picture some random chick _kissing_ him. I would have rather had a smackdown with a bird-woman-seal hybrid."

"So, what'd Dipper do to make these, what - Harkies? - mad enough to eat him?"

Despite the dry ache of her contacts or the layer of makeup she’s been dying to take off, Pacifica can't help her curiosity. She settles in one of the chairs at the small kitchen table just as Mabel digs back onto the yarn-tangled couch. Mabel blinks slowly, looking for all the world like a living version of some animated woodland creature. It's not hard to understand why Mabel had proclaimed herself the cuter twin. For a long moment, Mabel does nothing, simply staring at Pacifica from across the room.

"What?" Pacifica finally spits. She hadn't realized that there had been some strange, warm feeling rising in her chest until Mabel's silence suddenly quashed it. Anxiety bites at her gut, because maybe Mabel's decided Pacifica's not worth talking to, but then why does she even care, it's not like she is trying to be _friends_ with the Pines girl, but-

A small smile lights on Mabel's face. It's not the over-wide grin she normally wears, the one that comes with glitter and excitement and neon colors and whatever else. It's soft, sincere, makes it all the way to her eyes.

"Sorry," Mabel says, "I was just thinking how - even though I was really not a fan of this whole rooming arrangement a few days ago - it's actually really nice to have someone - to have you - from Gravity Falls as my roommate. Because anybody else would have said 'Harkies? What are you going on about, you crazy?". But when you've been in Gravity Falls long enough, you're just way more open to the crazy stuff that happens. It just a big relief, yeah? Not having to pretend all that weird stuff never happened just to seem normal."

"I wish I could pretend all that weird stuff never happened," Pacifica mutters. It's meant to be quiet enough for Mabel not to hear, but the other girl does anyway. Pacifica can't fully read the look that crosses Mabel's face, but it's enough for her to backtrack, despite how against her nature it might be. "But, like, yeah. It's nice, or whatever. Who else would understand my otherwise inexplicable Mini Golf phobia?"

Mabel giggles, though she looks a little embarrassed. 

"I guess roommates who almost die together... Get along fine together?" Mabel says, furrowing her brow as she tries to figure out the rhyme. 

"Yeah yeah, let's not get too ahead of ourselves," Pacifica says, but she doesn't mean it, really, and she can tell Mabel knows. She picks herself off of her chair, suddenly feeling just how late it is.

"Anyway, it's not like beauty rest is something I need, but it is way too early in the morning, and today is Bid Day. I'm going to bed - don't stay up for too much longer."

"No promises!" Mabel says in a sing-song voice, "Sleep is for the undercaffeinated. But, good night, Pacifica. Sleep well."

"Good night, weirdo," she says, and despite herself, she beams at the girl. Mabel smiles back.

...

”But she was so rude!”

“Yeah, and you were a big dweeb so it was probably justified.”

“Mabel, you don’t get it - I have been going out of my way to be nice to her, and she just-”

“Maybe you don’t get it, Dipper. Just because we know her and just because she’s my roommate doesn’t mean she’s like, entitled to talk to you or something. Besides, wasn’t the point of this whole kooky ‘experiment’ of yours to get you learn how to be ‘social’ or ‘cool’ or whatever and ‘meet new people’?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay fine, but where does she get off thinking she can treat me like that? What, because she’s a Northwest? Because she’s rich and pretty and somehow conflates those two things with being able to get away with anything - including probably murder?”

“Why do you even care? If she hurt your feelings or made you feel bad, I’ll march in there right now and demand she apologize, but that’s not quite the vibe I’m getting here, Dipper.”

“No, Mabel… I mean, yes, I’m a little hurt that she can’t seem to call me anything other than ‘dweeb’, but I get that from everyone so it’s not like... I just can’t get a read on her. One minute, it seems like we’re fine, like okay, yeah, maybe we’re getting along and she doesn’t consider me the scum of the earth, but then a minute later - out of nowhere! - she can’t stand me! She’s such a- such a brat!”

“Whoa ho there, pot, newsflash: kettle’s not the only one that’s black. Do you even hear yourself, Dipper? You’re freaking out over fifteen minutes of conversation that you’ve had with this girl, who, like I said before, isn’t entitled to talk to you. What do you even know about Pacifica? What do either of us know? I wasn’t with you much of that night at the mansion, but for years afterwards all you could talk about was how we needed to ‘give her another chance’. And now you’re mad because you had one bad encounter? So mad you’re not even going to talk about the girl you apparently spent _all night_ with? You need to find your chill, bro bro.”

“She told you that? Seriously? Yeah, sure, I’ll go find my chill, but only after she finds hers. Preferably at the bottom of the Bottomless Pit.”

“Dipper!”

“...Sorry. I just don’t want to be wrong. After all of those years of thinking, that maybe… I don’t want to have been wrong about her.”

Mabel says something else, but Pacifica doesn’t hear. The rustling of blankets and the creak of her small dorm bed cover up her response as Pacifica stands up and starts pulling her pillows off. In a few minutes, she’s made herself a pallet in the narrow floor space opposite of the seemingly paper-thin wall her bedroom shares with the living area. 

She curls up on the floor and pulls one of her pillows over her head, covering her ears. The twins’ voices still come through, but it’s only in muffled tones now, not words. Not perfect, but better. She takes a few shuddering breaths, squeezes her eyes shut, and tries to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! As always, I don't own Gravity Falls, make no money from it, and have paid for the right to write this tripe in tears and soul debts. 
> 
> Please come around and hit me up on tumblr! I've got Bill doodles and reverse!Pines drabbles and lots of other dumb stuff: brettanomycroft.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mabel's wrong, Dipper's wrong, Pacifica's wrong, and at least two of them are probably drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter out! With the end of the school year and the start of summer, there was quite a bit to do, and I got behind. Nonetheless, I'm pleased that I could get this chapter out in time for Dippica Week, which has been a delight! Go check out all of the great Dippica stuff folks on tumblr are creating at dippicaweek.tumblr.com
> 
> Many thanks to kimpernickel, who kept me motivated to regularly work on this chapter. I may have had to rewrite an entire scene, but it got done!
> 
> Chapter warnings for underage drinking, innuendo, language, vomit, and way too much description about Sorority life.

"Morning, Pacifica!"

Slowly, Pacifica turns towards the bright voice. Mabel, still on the couch, still covered in yarn, gives her a little wave with her knitting needles, but doesn't look up from her project. The yellow yarn from the night before had been replaced with the collar and sleeves of a sweater, and it appeared as though Mabel had started in on a deep violet stripe a few hours before.

"Good morning, Mabel. Did you go to bed at all last night?"

"Nope. I'm trying to get this done by tomorrow. Gotta look _fabulous_ for my first day!"

"And I'm sure you will," Pacifica mutters as she fills up a bottle of water at the sink. She takes few deep sips, but they did nothing to clear her sleep-addled head. Coffee would obviously be better, but she couldn’t-

"Whoa! Stormy weather alert! You alright?"

Mabel is looking up at her now, brows furrowed. She starts to pull the yarn off of her and stand.

"What are you talking about?" Pacifica asks. A glance across the room to the window reveals a clear, sunny day, one of the last gorgeous vestiges of summer.

"You, girlfriend! You look flawless, but you've got a major 'down in the dumps' black cloudy thingy looming all around you.”

“It’s nothing, Mabel, I just didn’t sleep that great last night after the party.”

And that’s where she realizes she’s made a mistake. Mabel lets out a soft gasp.

“You heard us last night, didn’t you? You heard my stupid brother and all of the stupid stuff he said! The walls are super thin, I should have known. Pacifica, I’m so sorry-”

“Mabel, it’s fine,” she says, not turning to face her roommate. “He’s entitled to his opinion, and I’m a big girl,” she finishes, but she can’t hide the tired sigh in her voice. 

She can tell Mabel has stood up by the clatter of wooden knitting needles and the surrusus of displaced yarn. 

“It’s not okay. Did he upset you? I’m going to talk to him, and make him apologize.”

Pacifica turns, putting a hand on her hip.

“Look, I’m not thrilled about it, but it’s fine. Leave it, Mabel. Please. It’s not important.”

“But-”

“Leave it. I’ve got to go, it’s Bid Day, I’ll catch you later.”

“But… good luck,” Mabel says with a sigh. 

...

All of the prospective pledges meet on a soccer field at the edge of Sorority Row. They gather at one goal, a mixed rainbow of sundresses and strappy sandals and nervously smiling faces. At the other end, a long row of older girls, segmented into chunks of house colors: pink, violet, hunter green, aquamarine. Each girl holds a balloon, again in the respective colors of their chapter.

Pacifica waits at the back of the group of pledges, watches as one-by-one each girl's name and new sorority is announced. With each new name, a different girl breaks out into shrieks and tears, then runs across the field, into the arms of their new, cheering sisters. It's almost surreal: the twisted faces, the clapping hands, the ceremonial passing on of balloons.

Her name is called. As if on cue, the crowd quiets, waiting to hear where _the_ Pacifica Northwest would place. Top tier for sure, with the rest of the _money_. 

They're not wrong, though if she cared more, she might have been offended when Psi Delta Psi is read off after her name. A high ranking house to be sure, but not the very best at the school, not the one that her money and name should have bought. For all her efforts, maybe she was losing her touch. 

She walks across the field, and she's certain she feels the intensity of every gaze increase with each deliberate step. 

"I think you're supposed to run," one of the new Delta pledges - her sister now, Pacifica supposes - hisses under the chorus of congratulations and hugs. One of the sisters hands her a bubblegum pink balloon, another pulls her over and jabs a green pin with the letters onto the strap of Pacifica's dress. 

A voice pipes up from the back of the crowd of girls.

"A true Delta knows when it follow tradition... And when it's time to set a trend."

In a motion that couldn't have been smoother had it been coordinated, the sea of sisters parts for a flood of wavy red hair. Pacifica recognizes the older girl immediately. Nonetheless, she manages to keep a smile plastered on her face.

"Lillian," the girl says, reaching out a hand. Pacifica shakes it, thinks about where that hand might have been, and fights down a blush. 

"I think you're going to be a perfect fit, Pacifica. Welcome to Psi Delta Psi."

...

Hours later, Pacifica shoulders the door open with a grunt.

"Whoa, they give away stuffed animals in sororities? Sign me up and call me sister!"

Mabel leaps up from the kitchen table as she notices Pacifica struggling at the door, and rushes up to pluck the large stuffed crocodile and accompanying sign from her arms.

" _My name is Pacifica, and there's no de-Nile-ing Psi Delt is at the top of the pyramid_ ," Mabel reads, voice raising into a question as she finishes. "Um. What?"

The armful of knick knacks clatters to the table as Pacifica collapses into a chair. She looks at the pile - shirts, koozies, flags, pamphlets, keychains, more - for a long moment before letting out a slow sigh.

"Psi Delta Psi. My sorority and new home away from home. And now that rush is over... It's pledge week."

Stuffed crocodile still tucked in her elbow, Mabel takes the other chair.

"Whoa, slow down, 'cause that was _all_ Greek to me!"

"Rush week was what we did last-" but Pacifica cuts off when she sees Mabel crack a grin and waggle her eyebrows, "Oh my god, you are the worst!"

"Ha ha, I know," Mabel says smugly, "but forreal, what's up with this adorable little fellow?"

She rubs the crocodile up against her face, and Pacifica swears Mabel practically purrs in content. As if she didn't already have enough stuffed animals - Pacifica had caught a glimpse of Mabel's bed once, and she was sure it was more extra-long twin sized menagerie than bed.

"Delta's mascot animal thing-y is a crocodile, and don't ask me why when all of the other sororities have cute animals like owls and penguins. Anyway, since it's pledge week I have to do like a zillion stupid things to prove that I'm 'worthy' of being a Delta. All of the tasks were made up my another one of the girls, my 'Big', who's apparently watching me all week but I have no clue who it is. So, not creepy cultish at all."

Mabel's eyes had widened over the course of Pacifica's description, but now, her jaw dropped.

"What. The. Heck. Do you gain crazy cool secret powers afterwards?"

"Not unless you count the _privilege_ of the constant company of the rich and the inherent nepotistic schmoozing that comes with it," Pacifica said, wrinkling her nose.

"Wow, tell me how you really feel..." Mabel said with a snort. 

She began to sift through the rest of the goodies with a keen interest. Pacifica watched, amused, and picked up the foam board sign Mabel had read before. Handwritten, the words sparkled with large green and pink glittered letters in a swirling font. It made her a little dizzy to look at. At the top, two holes had been punched through, and a long pink ribbon tied through both. It was only half of the full sign, one of the sisters had explained, and part of her first task: she'd wear the first half dutifully for as long as instructed, and receive the second half at some point through the week. The sign would not be her only constant companion through her first week of classes, as carrying the stuffed crocodile around everywhere she went anytime she left her dorm had also been made a requirement.

"No offense, Pacifica, but you don't seem too enthused about this whole sorority thing, so why do it?"

Mabel looks up at Pacifica, face unusually serious. The look is too scrutinizing for her to stall, and Pacifica doesn't have enough time to keep the sour look from flashing across her face.

"It's what someone like me just does," she replies, not sounding nearly as airy or confident as she'd like. "We all have our traditions."

The look Mabel shoots her makes it clear to Pacifica that she doesn't believe her, but Mabel doesn't press it further. 

"Traditions are gross and boring," she says instead, "unlike adorable, fashionable sweaters. I gotta go finish mine up before my first class tomorrow."

She stands up and throws her hands over her head. 

"That 7:30 class won't even know what hit them..." Mabel leans towards Pacifica and whispers conspiratorially, "It'll be fashion."

Before Pacifica can respond, Mabel flounces back to her room and closes the door, leaving Pacifica to her pile of sorority bric-a-brac. 

"Well, we'd better go get some beauty sleep," she mutters to the crocodile," Trust me, you need it."

…

It's 2 am. Pacifica's phone suddenly comes alive, chirping once, twice, three times. Even after the notification sounds die down, a light from her phone pulses gently, ensuring she won't get back to sleep until she checks the messages and turns them off. Groaning, she fumbles her phone off of the nightstand. 

_Psi Delta Psi_ the first one reads.

 _Not bad, though your mother says you could have done better_ it continues in the second.

_Make sure the funds in your account go to your chapter fees. I will be monitoring the transaction._

Pacifica wonders if her father held competitions to hire the bitchiest PA on the face of the planet. She was fairly certain the job description must have included 'Must enjoy belittling teen girls at all hours of the night' and 'Heartless, soulless, spawn of Satan preferred". 

Contemplating a response, Pacifica rolls out of bed. On one hand, she hasn't addressed her father's PA in almost a year and a half, and sees little reason to start now. On the other hand, the woman had chosen to intentionally text her when she knew Pacifica would be sleeping, on the very first day of classes, when Pacifica would need to be at her peak, and Pacifica can’t help but feel like that sin shouldn’t go unpunished. 

_Too bad,_ Pacifica types out, _I’ve already blown it all on drugs and hookers. My compromising pictures should be all over the internet in the next 12 hours. Loving college! xoxo_

Her thumb hesitates over the ‘Send’ button. She thinks about her small dorm room, her new roommate, classes in a few hours, the precious bits of freedom gasping under the weight of the Northwest name. With a scowl, she hits ‘Delete All’ and rolls back over in bed. 

...  
Monday is Economics, Intro to International Law, and a three hour Chemistry lab. The guidance counselor had advised her against taking more than 12 credit hours in her first Fall semester, and Pacifica had handily ignored them. She stumbles back into her dorm room nearly seven hours later, burdened with books, syllabi, and, of course her sign and stuffed crocodile. As she dumps everything on the table, Pacifica thinks her day might have gone better without the sorority add-ons. 

"How was your first day, Pacifica?" 

Mabel's voice drifts out from her bedroom; the girl follows seconds later. She's sporting the yellow sweater she'd been working on all weekend, and paired with deep purple leggings and black boots, Pacifica had to admit, the outfit did look on point. 

"Exhausting," she says with a sigh, "But exciting. I finally feel like a real college student. Did you blow everyone out of the water with your sweater?"

Mabel grins and tugs at the sweater, face a mix of pride and embarrassment. "Yeah, one of the girls in my Intro Design class came and asked me where I got it. She was ultra impressed when I said I made it, and she gave me her number so we can study and do projects together and stuff!"

"That's great," Pacifica says, and she's a little surprised to find that she means it.

"But now I'm ready to kick back and relax!" Mabel says, collapsing onto the couch. "That first day homework stuff can wait a few hours... Right?"

"Yeah, I wish," Pacifica mutters. Her stomach rumbles, and she glances at the clock on her phone. All she wants to do is go to bed and pass out, but that's not her lot in life. She stands up, scooping the sign and crocodile into her arms. "I gotta go to the house for dinner," she says, and at least there's the promise of food. "Sorority thing."

"Roger that!" Mabel says. She's already sprawled out comfortably on the couch, playing a game on her phone by the looks of it.

"See you later, Mabel."

"After while, crocodile!"

"... Don't do that."

...

"Um, do I even want to know?"

Pacifica jumps at the sudden voice, a voice she hasn't heard since Saturday night and, honestly, was hoping she'd get away with avoiding for a few nights more.

Dipper shuts the door behind him and then leans against it. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at the common area floor, bemused. 

"I'm turning Pacifica's sorority stuffed animal thingy into an adorable gator purse!"

"Mabel, it's a crocodile," Pacifica says, again, for the umpteenth time, with a sigh. 

"Crocodile, schmocodile," Mabel says with an airy wave before returning to her dissection. She deftly buries her seam ripper back into the plush toy's belly and tugs, none-too-gently. Clouds of white stuffing ooze from the tear, and Pacifica suddenly can't tell if the look on Mabel's face is one of intense concentration or maniacal glee.

"Pacifica," Dipper greets her with a stiff nod, to which she responds with a tight smile. 

He's gone back to his shaggy northwestern chic, flannel and jeans shredded at the knees. Even the beard's started coming back, and Pacifica feels as though she can breathe a little easier. This is, maybe, a Dipper she can handle.

"Looks like the sorority thing worked out well for you," he continues. He crosses the room and squats down next to Mabel, eyeing the crocodile. "Guess I'm glad I get to miss out on all that pledge week business."

"What, why?" Pacifica asks. Mabel smacks her forehead with the hand still holding the seam ripper, and Pacifica and Dipper flinch in unison. She's fine, of course, naturally only hitting herself with the plastic handle, but Dipper and Pacifica can't help glancing at one another with a stricken look. 

"I was so wrapped up in my sweater I forgot to tell you!" Mabel exclaims. A sly grin parts her lips, and Dipper flushes red.

"I don't think that's really necessary Mabel," he mumbles.

"Nonsense, it's _hilarious_!"

Dipper gets redder and looks away from both girls. 

"It's most definitely not."

"Dipper didn't get selected by the house he was going for because he made out with a _girl_."

At this point Pacifica's not even sure how Dipper is still alive, as there has to be an unhealthy volume of blood north of his neck. He clenches and unclenches his hands, then mumbles, "At least that's not all we did."

Now it's Pacifica's turn to blush, though Mabel seems totally unfazed. Pacifica's pretty sure she'd be mortified if a sibling said something like that around her, but she's only ever been and only, and the Pines twins seemed to exist on their own accentuated scale of weird.

"So hooking up with the ex-girlfriend of recruiting didn't work out for you, Pines?" Pacifica asks from behind the hand she's using to cover her face.

"Yeah, it- wait, how did _you_ know?" Dipper straightens and looks her in the eye for the first time that day. 

"One of the guys from the frat mentioned it at that last party," she says casually, embarrassment winding down. She lowers her hand from her face to return his stare.

"Seriously? You knew before it happened?" He purses his lips and shakes his head. "A bit of warning would have been appreciated," Dipper spits. 

"Oh, sorry, couldn't really get a word in edgewise with the way you and Lillian were going at it," Pacifica retorts, and in the back of her head, she can't quite trace where the vitriol suddenly sprang from, how it escalated so quickly.

"What, you know Lillian too? Can't you just stay out of my business?"

Dipper stands up, clearly with the intent to loom over her, but Pacifica's having none of it. She too stands, and tilts her chin up, doing nothing to account for the half foot height difference and not caring anyway. Mabel peeks up at them from the floor nervously, gripping her seam ripper.

"Uh, if I'm not mistaken, you wanted me to be all up in your business just a minute ago! And trust me, it's not like I'm trying or whatever. I'm _in_ Delta. _With_ Lillian."

Dipper groans and turns on his heel, away from her. His fingers tangle into his hair and pull in frustration. 

"Great, so not only are you sharing a dorm with my sister, but you're in the same sorority as my... Whatever!"

"Trust me, Dipper, I'm about as thrilled about this as you are," Pacifica says, putting her hands on her hips, "If I could-"

"If you weren't so-" Dipper cuts in, spinning back around to face her.

"Enough!"

Mabel springs up between them, arms outstretched, seam ripper in one hand, pincushion in the other. She takes a long time to glare at both of them, face so distorted in anger that both Dipper and Pacifica are stunned into silence.

"You two," she says, breathing heavily, "Are acting like big, dumb, babies. Heck, even babies have better interpersonal skills!" 

She turns to Pacifica. "We're only three days into the first semester of our first year of college, and-," Mabel pauses to glare at Dipper, "if this nonsense continues, you guys will drive me insane, and trust me, you will not like that."

"But she-" Dipper starts, only to be silenced by a look from his twin.

"I wasn't-" Pacifica tries, but indeed, that glare is more intimidating than she'd expect from a girl who knits sweaters and makes purses from stuffed animals.

"Pacifica," Mabel says,"You've been incredibly rude to Dipper since the start. I'm not saying it wasn't justified-"

"Hey!" he protests, but Mabel carries on.

"But that doesn't mean it was necessary. Dipper has done a lot to try and be nice to you, and you've shut him down pretty much every time."

Pacifica casts her eyes to the floor, unable to take Mabel's gaze. She wasn't wrong, not really, but Pacifica had heard that before, when Dipper-

"And Dipper," Mabel continues, "You've acted like a brat every time Pacifica has been less-than-perfect to you. She doesn't have to talk to you just because we have some common ground, and you have no right to act so pissy when things don't go your way. Not to mention that she overheard all of those things you said about her and-"

"Mabel-" Pacifica says, and she feels the blood rush from her face. But it's too late, the soapbox is too high, and Mabel charges on.

"And she was really hurt and upset by it. It's obvious she's going through a lot and she didn't need you adding on to it."

Pacifica buries her head in her hands and groans, and the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach can't decide if it's embarrassed or frustrated. She can feel the weight of the twins' gazes on her. 

"What are you talking about, Mabel?" she says, and she tries to leverage all the strength she has, every fiber of hauteur left in her bones, but there's not much, not now. She manages to pull her hands from her face and smile. "Everything is perfect."

"Yeah, Pacifica's fine," Dipper says, though his face is starting to screw up the longer he looks at her, as if she were a particularly interesting specimen under an unfocused microscope. 

Mabel's brow furrows, and she finally lets her arms drop. "But your dress, and your side of the fridge..." she says, voice trailing into a question. 

"I don't see your point," Pacifica deadpans, though she very much knows _exactly_ what Mabel is referring to, and realizes that she had been vastly underestimating the other girl's powers of observation.

"Pacifica, your parents haven't called you once since school started, or before that even. It's our second full week at college - our mom's calling us twice a day."

"Mabel!" Dipper hisses. 

Pacifica is no longer fully in control of the look on her face, too shocked, too blindsided to know how to respond. 

"I'm right, right Pacifica? It's okay if you want to-"

"I'm going to go," Pacifica manages, voice clearly strained. "Dinner at the house. Studying. Bye."

She blindly grabs for purse and phone and flees. 

"Mabel!" she hears Dipper exclaim again.

"I was just trying to help!"

...

See, the thing is, to the Northwests, sending their only child to college is nothing more than a one-off game of Sink or Swim. To make things more amusing, they put the sharks in the water themselves. 

Swim: She follows their rules, they keep the sharks at bay. She joins a sorority, meets an appropriately wealthy man, and marries him. Completion of school is optional. She drifts back into her sphere or, at the very least, contributes to their name and their wealth.

Sink: She finally and fully disobeys them. They revoke the meager funding that keeps her in a dorm, that pays for the fees her scholarships don't cover. She falters, she fails, she drowns. Sharks pick the flesh from her bones. 

Pacifica doggy-paddles, bobbing between the waves, head barely above water. She will neither win nor lose, and it will work because it has to work.

...

Pacifica comes back late, late enough that Mabel is most likely in bed. 

The lights in the common area are on, but Mabel is nowhere to be found. On the couch sits Pacifica's crocodile, now fully transformed into a purse. It will make it easier for her to carry around during pledge week, a brilliant idea on the part of Mabel, and Pacifica takes it for the apology that it is.

…

“Hi, Dipper.”

One would think she was a lime green five-headed monster given the way Dipper responds. His eyes widen and he sputters into his drink, blowing foam and beer all over his lips and chin. After a moment, he lowers his cup and wipes the mess off of his face with his shirtsleeve.

“Hi, Pacifica…?”

She resists the urge to cringe at the hesitance in his voice. They’d left on less-than-stellar terms, and she and Mabel still hadn’t quite gotten back to talking yet, not really. The rest of the week passed in relative quiet, Mabel keeping to the projects in her room, Pacifica spending as much time at the Delta house as possible. It’s how she finds herself face-to-face with Dipper, on a Saturday, at a party her sisters organized to celebrate tomorrow’s Little-Big reveal. 

Pacifica loses against the impulse to bite her bottom lip and break eye contact. She doesn’t walk away though, despite how she suddenly really doesn’t want to have this conversation and she’s pretty sure her palms are starting to sweat. But Mabel was right, after all, they have to spend an entire year together, and the only way either she or her roommate would make it out alive was if Pacifica and Dipper came to some kind of agreement. 

“I like your bowtie,” she says, and this time she does cringe at how stilted her words sound.  
Dipper looks away and rubs the back of his neck, expression drifting between what Pacifica can best describe as confused and pained. He takes a deep, long sip of his beer, then flicks one side of his bowtie - purple, with brink pink skulls.

“It’s Mabel’s,” he say, still not meeting her eyes. “I went over to her - your - dorm earlier and she refused to tell me what to wear, so I took it from her when she wasn’t looking. I think she’s still mad at me for, well, everything.”

“You’re not the only one,” Pacifica says, and her laughter sounds harsh, stilted. 

Dipper pauses to take a sip of his beer. Straightening, he lifts his chin and frowns. 

“Look, Mabel was right,” he says, “I don’t have any right to your time or attention or whatever. And you don’t have to talk to me just because you’re my sister’s roommate. You don’t need to pity me or hang around because you feel bad or whatever. We’re nothing alike, I get it. You’re rich and live a totally different life.” His expression is hard, and his eyes narrow in a warily. 

“I get it,” he repeats.

“Dipper-” she starts, but he turns away, gives her a half-wave over his shoulder. 

It shouldn’t sting the way it does. Why she even thought it would be a good idea to try and set things right, why she was even _bothering_ , remains a mystery to her, because it’s clearly wrecking all of her attempts to maintain appearances, and Mabel’s catching on too fast, and why does she even want to reconcile a couple hours worth of a semi-friendship from five years ago when every shitty thing that had happened in her life seemed to coalesce with that very decision? Sure, she’s not her parents, not really a Northwest, but that doesn’t mean she has to make nice with everyone. Still-

The crowd of college party-goers Dipper parted in his escape have already reformed around him, and it’s nearly impossible for Pacifica to see the top of his brown head. She pushes through the dancing bodies, pushes past the boys that call her name or the girls that flag her down to talk.

“Dipper!” she calls out, and how he hears him over the heavy bass of the song blaring through the house, she'll never know. 

She spots him because he’s the only one that’s stopped, the only figure not moving in the gyrating, spinning mass of dancing bodies. How this many people could fit in the living room of one house - albeit a fairly large one - is something she’ll have to contemplate later. For the moment, all thoughts are fixated on the boy before her, the one who stopped at her call. Pacifica bumps into a few more people as she closes the final couple of feet between them.

“Dipper,” she shouts over the noise, “I need to talk to you!”

“Pacifica, I already said it’s fine!” he shouts back, looking down at her. “Don’t bother when we both know that-”

“That’s not it! Just let me finish, okay? Jeez!”

The crowd shifts and jostles and moves, pushing them closer together. Pacifica does not think about the scant inches between them, the way each jostling body eliminates even more space. She looks up at him, reconciling for the first time the near half foot difference in height. 

“Look,” he begins, but Pacifica grabs his arm and begins pulling him out of the writhing horde. 

The make it to a clear space in the corner of the living room, towards the door to the kitchen. It’s not as quiet, or as private, as Pacifica would like, but it has to suffice.

“Dipper, I heard what you said last weekend, and as much as it physically pains me to admit it, like, I’m legit pretty sure my bones as disintegrating right now as I say it, I was hurt.”

Pacifica’s words come out rushed, any attempt to still sound composed undermined by the strain in her voice. 

“That wasn’t supposed-” Dipper starts with a cringe. She cuts him off before he can start apologizing - or arguing. 

“And I deserved it,” she says, “I deserved everything you said. I’ve been an ass since the first day.”

She meets his eyes. Pacifica’s fairly certain the loud thumping accosting her ears is her heartbeat, not the music from the party, and her fight-or-flight kicks in strongly once more. She holds fast, digging her fingers into the material of her dress like an anchor, clawing against sand.

Dipper stares at her for a long time. Takes an extended swig from his cup. Blinks. Blinks again.

“Are you possessed?” he finally says, “Because I know how to fix that. I’m being dead serious right now. It’d take like, 10 minutes, tops.”

Before she can stop herself, she smacks him on the arm. The beer in his cup sloshes over the side.

“This is why we can’t have nice things, Pines!” she says, exasperated. “You don’t want to try and fix things? Fine!”

His eyes widen a little, and he holds out a hand to stop her.

“You _are_ being serious,” he says, a strange look crossing his face.

“Yes, Dipper,” she sighs, “I’m trying to say that I’ve been terrible to you and I knew it.”

“Well, yes, yes you have. But I was terrible too, and I shouldn’t have said all of those things. Nobody deserves that. I don't really even know you, and I just assumed..." 

Dipper trails off with an embarrassed looking shrug. He breaks eye contact, then seems to catch himself and looks at her again. 

"The fact of the matter is, Mabel is my twin and you are her roommate. There's no avoiding you - I mean, not that I'd want, uh - what I'm trying to say is-"

Pacifica sticks her hand out in front of him. He jumps a little, surprised, and stares at her open palm for a long moment.

"I was in the wrong," Pacifica says, "Let's call it a truce."

He reaches out and takes her hand in hers, shaking firmly.

"Is that like a rich girl version of apologizing?" he teases, raising an eyebrow.

She shoots him a dirty look and attempts to pull her hand from his, but his grip tightens a little, and he smiles.

"I know, I know, I'm an ass. I was in the wrong. Let's call it a truce," he says.

The contact isn't broken immediately. Whether it's the alcohol or the solemnity of the moment, they keep shaking hands. Dipper's hand is soft, and warm, and a little sweaty. She looks down at their still joined hands, and lets out a giggle. 

It is then that she notices the marks on his wrist: three strong lines forming a triangle, and something that looks suspiciously like an eye. The impression of the image is brief, because suddenly Dipper is letting go and shoving his hand in his pocket in a way that seems oddly deliberate. She glances up at him, ready to ask, because there's something about it that itches at the back of her skull, some surreal familiarity that she can't quite place-

"You know there's only one way to cement this bond of solidarity, right?" Dipper asks.

"Wha-?" she starts, but Dipper already has her by the wrist (his other hand, she notices), tugging her along towards the kitchen.

"Dipper, if you're about to say shots-"

"And I am-" he says, flashing her a grin.

"Then I'm going to have to take back this truce," she finishes.

"What? Come on! It's a Saturday!"

"Peer pressure will get you nowhere, and besides, I'm a young woman of high standards," Pacifica says with a sniff. 

"Yeah, okay, so young women of high standards only do three shots of Jack at the beginning of the party? After that it's, what, champagne and crumpets?"

He's already pouring a shot of something clear and painfully bottom shelf (Pacifica's almost shocked - the boys at the frat could definitely afford more - but figured all those finance majors had probably determined drunk price efficiency). 

"Do you even know what crumpets are, Pines?" Pacifica asks.

"Not even a little bit," Dipper says with a wink. She's vaguely aware that she feels a little warm, but shakes it off. 

Pacifica rolls her eyes and daintily picks up the bright pink plastic shot glass. Dipper picks up his and tilts it towards her.

"To new friendships," he says.

Pacifica is glad she hadn't taken the shot yet, because she knows it would have immediately come back up her nose. She opens her mouth to protest, to laugh, something, but stops when she sees Dipper's face. He's smiling, but the expression is precipitous, as if it could break or melt away at any moment.

"To truces," Pacifica says.

"To new friendships," he repeats. 

They clink their plastic glasses together. Pacifica throws her head back and downs the liquor. It stings and burns on the way down, but she manages not to make a face. Dipper, on the other hand, sputters and coughs, barely managing to keep it down.

"Why..." he mutters as he sets the shot glass down, "Why did I think that was a good idea?" He coughs again, pulling a disgusted face.

"Probably because you spent most of your life as an anti-social kid who never wasted their time at raging parties in high school?"

His brows furrow. "Was that a... Compliment? Or do you just have a really unorthodox definition of a 'truce'?"

“Just pour me another shot before I change my mind about all of this.”

“But you just said-”

“I know what I said, but we’re solidifying our truce or whatever, right?”

Pacifica puts her hands on her hips, staring at him with as much severity as she can muster, but her chest feels a little warm and her head a little light. This is what she’d wanted, right? Dipper smiles and pours her another shot.

…  
“Northweeeeeest!” Dipper calls out from the other side of the room.

“Piiiiiiiines!” she called back, fulfilling their own version of Marco Polo. Pacifica collapses into a fit of giggles as Dipper spots her and starts making his way towards the otherwise empty loveseat she’s found. His hands, occupied by two very full-looking cups, are raised slightly above his head, out of the way of the throng of people milling about the party.

“I’ve found youuuuu!” he shouts, ignoring the looks he gets from the frat boys nearby. Pacifica’s not the only one giggling: she sees some of the sorority girls - her new sisters, ‘cause she’s one of those too, now - covering their mouths with their hands. 

Dipper plops down on the couch next to her, handing her a solo cup freshly filled with beer. 

“I see you’ve mastered the fine art of the keg,” Pacifica says, and if her voice sounds off to her, too high, too airy, then she doesn’t notice through the haze of - how many? 5? 6? - shots. 

Clenching his fist victoriously, he strikes a pose that borders on noble and fails. “You have taught me well, Sensei.”

She once again dissolves into uncontrollable laughter, and he follows soon after. They ram their cups together in cheers and drink deep. Astounding, she thinks, though the thought is vague, and quiet, astonishing how different everything is from just an hour ago. Her laughter dies down, and she drinks in the expression of joy on Dipper’s face. 

His hair, mussed, sticks to his forehead - and man, she hadn’t noticed how warm the house had gotten - and his birthmark is just visible between chunks of sticky bangs. At some point his bowtie had come undone and disappeared; Pacifica’s loosely concerned about how Mabel might react before she remembers that no, it’s not lost, but instead has found it’s way around Pacifica’s neck. It doesn’t match her outfit, but she doesn’t care. Dipper has pushed up his shirtsleeves, and that mark on his wrist is visible again. She needs to ask, but Dipper’s turning his body towards her, and their knees touch. Huh. Her face feels too hot, too exposed, and she lifts her cup to her mouth.

“I like this,” Dipper says. Before she can ask, he gestures at her, then at him, and the space between them. “It’s like before. You know? That one time.”

It’s only because the house is so warm that she doesn’t shiver. Or, she realizes in a brief moment of clarity, that she’s had too much to drink. Typically any mention of her parents, even indirect, is enough to sober her up instantly.

“I thought my parents were going to kill me when they found the carpet,” she says, and that’s not what she wanted to say, and why does this keep happening? Pacifica’s mouth keeps moving even though her brain has stopped. “Apparently they didn’t like being told that they could just buy a new one, even though that’s like, exactly what they did. Worth it, though.”

“I’m sorry I got you in trouble.”

They fall into silence for maybe a minute, maybe forever. The room is spinning ever-so-slightly, and Pacifica focuses intently on keeping herself grounded.

“You saved my life,” Dipper says softly. “Mine and Mabel’s.”

“After being the one responsible for nearly killing you,” she says bitterly. 

“Pacifica, no.”

Dipper reaches out and places his hand on her knee. He stares at her as intently as possible, but his gaze is hazy, both their heads swimming. 

“I will never forget what you did. I had no idea what you were going through and obviously still don’t but I will never forget. You saved my life.”

He leans in close to her, more weight shifting onto her knee. With a conspiratorial look, he gestures to the rest of the room. “No one else in this room has been through as much crazy shit as we have, I guarantee it. All these rich kids wrapped up in their own worlds, they have no idea.”

Pacifica sits back slightly. “I’m one of those rich kids, Dipper.”

“No, well, I mean, yes. But you’re a Gravity Falls rich kid, and you’re not like them. Like, you are, but you aren’t,” he finishes with a definitive air, nodding at his own words.

“That makes perfect sense.”

Dipper nods again, then reaches out towards her. Between thumb and forefinger he pinches a few strands of her hair and holds them gently. 

“I liked your hair long,” he says, and she doesn’t start to protest fast enough to stop him, so he continues. “When I was a kid, I mean. I liked your hair long. But now I’m older and I like it short. I didn’t think I would. I guess we’re both really different now.”

Pacifica nods mutely, not entirely sure how to respond. Dipper lets go of her hair and lowers his hand so that both hands now rest on her knees. Pacifica stares at him. Takes a sip of her beer. She wonders what it would be like if he slid his hands up, or if she leaned into him, closer. The thought is so strange, she’s not entirely sure that she’s thinking it. Everything’s too warm.

“Dipper, there you are!”

They turn to the source of the voice. All of the air rushes out of her lungs as Pacifica spots Lillian in the crowd, making her way towards them. Her knees feel strangely cool as Dipper raises his hands to wave her over. 

“Hi,” Dipper says, smiling shyly up at the girl. “Where’d you run off to?”

“Sorry, I had to take care of something for tomorrow,” Lillian responds, and her eyes shift to Pacifica with a sly smile. “I bet you’re super excited, Pacifica! You finally get to find out who your Big is.”

Pacifica manages a convincingly enthusiastic response, trying not to watch the way Dipper watches Lillian. 

“I can’t believe you guys met one another,” she continues, and her voice seems genuinely happy. Pacifica is confused as to why, as she’s pretty certain she’d crossed some line, but there’s nothing in Lillian’s expression that sets off any flags. “Dipper, funniest dude at the party, and,” she leans in and lowers her voice, “Pacifica, best rising Delta, though don’t tell the other girls that.”

“We already knew each other, actually,” Pacifica says, pulling herself together enough to return Lillian’s smile. “We both spent our summers in Gravity Falls, and his sister’s my roommate.”

“Seriously?” Lillian exclaims, smacking Dipper on the shoulder, “You should have told me, that’s amazing! What a crazy coincidence.”

Pacifica’s mouth goes dry, and something in her gut goes sour. She looked, and now she’s watching the way Dipper watches Lillian, the way Lillian watches back.

“Anyway, do you mind if I steal Dipper?” Lillian asks, already starting to tug at his arm. “I was telling some of the others about that crazy giant vampire bat story of yours, but you tell it way better!”

Dipper is already standing up, tripping after Lillian by the time Pacifica slips over a “Yeah, sure, of course.”

The two merge into the crowd, clutching one another’s hands. The last glimpse of them she catches is when Lillian turns back to give her a little wave. 

Her fingers tighten around her cup. It’s mostly empty, though Pacifica can’t quite remember when that happened. The room’s gone back to spinning again, and the music is much louder than it was before, as if Dipper had taken some sort of muffling aura away with him when he left. She weighs the pros and cons of her next choice: stick around and end up puking in some bushes on the way back to her dorm, or puke in the bathroom now and possibly endure the ridicule of her sisters later.

She risks it, and begins staggering to the bathroom. 

“Pacifica!” 

Groaning, she stops, but she doesn’t have the coordination to turn around. An arm wraps around her waist.

“Looking gorgeous tonight, as always,” Scott says, leading her down the hall. 

She tenses, and tries to pull away, but he sets a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She realizes he’s guiding her towards the bathroom. He makes a show of running his hand up and down her side, and tucks his head into the crook of her neck. The few Greek members that dot the house’s hallway look to them. Some smile and look away, but at least one brother pumps his fist and calls out, “Woo, Scotty!”

His lips press gently against her neck, and he whispers, “Almost there, Paz.”

They make it to the bathroom. Scott opens the door for her, and motions for her to enter first. Out of the corner of her eye, he sees him wink to the people in the hallway. He closes the door, looks at her, and shakes his head.

“Sick drunk is not a good look for a pledge in the first week, sweetie.”

He helps her crouch over the toilet and holds back her hair as she vomits. Tears roll down her cheeks - this isn’t the first time it’s happened to her, but it doesn’t mean she likes it. The acrid tang of bile hits her nose, and her stomach wretches again.

“Seriously, boys aren’t worth it, Paz,” Scott says some time later. She’s got her cheek pressed up against the floor’s cool tile, and he brings her a paper cup with some water.

“It wasn’t a boy,” she mumbles tiredly, “I just didn’t eat enough today.”

“Sure thing, love,” he says, rolling his eyes.


	4. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> College can't be all fun and partying. 
> 
> Pacifica starts getting concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew... finally! This chapter gave me a *lot* of issues, and even after struggling through it, I'm more glad it's done than anything. One thousand thanks to everyone who left comments or encouraged me on tumblr to get this beast done!
> 
> I don't own Gravity Falls, thank science.

It should be some kind of federal crime for alarms to work early on Sunday; nonetheless, it is to the shrieking buzz of a cell phone alarm that Pacifica wakes. The room is not her own, and leaving the security of sheets to bridge the shadowy gulf between the bed and the desk where her phone rings is far from tempting. 

"Get the fuck up, Paz," a voice floats up from somewhere around the foot of the bed.

With a groan, Pacifica curls back into the ball of sheets and pillows she'd created. Maybe, if she could just drown the sound out...

"Pacifica, you've got to get ready for the Big Reveal."

She snorts lightly. Her head twinges with the action, an unwelcome forecast of the hangover to come.

"Quit treating it like such a Big deal," she says. Her mouth is dry, tacky.

"Ha ha, very funny. It's going to be a Big deal when I come up there and drag you out of my bed by your toes."

"I'd like to see you try, pretty boy!"

Scott's mess of black hair springs suddenly up from the floor. He stands swiftly, joints creaking, and silences her phone before stalking back over to the bed. He reaches out to grab her ankle, but she kicks out at him until he gives up and slides in bed next to her.

"How was my bed, your Highness?" he asks, yanking his pillow out from under her head.

"Rude! It was adequate. How was your floor, good sir?"

"Eh, I've had better, I've had worse. You're not the first to pass out in my bed, though I appreciate you getting all of your vomit out before falling asleep."

Pacifica's thankful that the dawn light edging through the blinds isn't strong enough to show her blush. From the way Scott is rearranging pillows and tugging the blankets away from her, he's probably not all that concerned about more than getting back to bed before the sun's done rising.

"Thanks," she mutters, "I, uh, really appreciate you letting me stay with you not..."

Scott flaps a hand in her direction, dismissive, "Don't worry about it. You know being frat doesn't mean I'm a dick. Drunk girls aren't my style. Pretty sober girls with bloodshot eyes and racoon spots for mascara though..."

He reaches out and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her to him. The skin of his bare chest is warm against her cheek. Scott gazes down at her for a long moment, and her heart pounds hard once, twice before his fingers dig into her sides, tickling. With a shriek she rolls out of his grip and off of the bed.

"You're awful!" Pacifica says, knees nearly buckling as she doubles over in laughter. 

"Hardly," he scoffs, "I'm perfection incarnate."

Part joke, part arrogance, Scott stretches his body across the bed, highlighting his obviously maintained physique. She rolls her eyes and starts scanning for her clothes from last night.

"Save it for the gym, Scotty," she says, "I'm sure all the other guys in the house appreciate it."

"Not _all_ of them," he says, winking. 

Scott props his hands behind his head and watches as she gathers her things. Dress, bra, crocodile purse, phone...

"Don't forget your bowtie."

"Huh?"

He motions over to his desk chair, where the black and pink strip of cloth rests over the back. Pacifica stares at it.

"That's not mine..." she says, "Scotty, have you been having other people over while I'm passed out?"

"Nah, babe, you had that draped around your neck when you came up here."

The material is rough under her fingers - cheap cotton, damp, black with pink skulls. She frowns. 

"This is Dipper's. I think. I must have taken it from him last night?"

"Dipper?" Scott asks. His voice comes out muffled; he's flipped over and buried his face back in his pillow. "That's the tall goofy looking kid, right? The one who's been fooling around with Lillian?"

"Yeah," Pacifica says, shoving the bowtie into her purse, "He's my roommate's brother."

"Goofy name, too," Scott grumbles, "You weren't puking over _him_ last night, were you?"

From kneeling over the toilet she traces back through her night: toilet, hallway, couch, Dipper merging into the crowd with Lillian, Dipper placing his hands on her knees, Dipper grinning at her after each shot, Dipper and his dumb bowtie.

Pacifica shakes her head and laughs.

"Hardly. I was just jealous you weren't lavishing all of your attention on me last night."

"Yeah, okay, sure, next time text me or, I dunno, come hang out with me instead."

She winces at that - he's got a point. She'd spent the entire party making amends with Dipper, and ignored all of the people she ought to have been getting to know better. Socializing came with the territory.

"Pacifica," Scott sighs, "I don't _really_ care who you choose to puke over, but I'll be the first to tell you, rumors spread fast through the Greek world, and you're not exactly nobody. It's the start of the year and you're in a good place right now. Don't blow it on some guy your Big is already into."

They stare at each other for what feels like forever, Pacifica with dropped jaw, Scott with wide eyes. Eventually he breaks the still.

"Shit, shiiiiiit, I didn't say that, pretend I didn't-"

Leaping back onto the bed, Pacifica plants both hands on Scott's shoulders. He tries to pull away, but she keeps him pinned in place.

"Scotty. Lillian's my Big?"

"I didn't say-"

"Scott. Lillian. Is. My. Big."

"Yes, okay! And you're not supposed to know until this afternoon, so you'd better act surprised."

She lets go of him to nibble at her thumbnail. If Lillian was her Big in Delta, and she and Dipper became a thing, then Pacifica would never escape him. In her dorm, at her sorority, at parties... Pacifica heaves a sigh.

"I don't know why you're not delighted," Scott says, eyeing her intently, "Lillian is, like, the chillest sophomore in Delta, and everyone loves her. Let's face it Paz, people are already talking about how you can sometimes be... Less-than-approachable. She'll be good for you. Unless you really _do_ have a thing for Dipper..."

"People are saying that about me?" 

"Some of the guys, maybe, yeah, but guys are idiots anyway, so-"

She pulls her phone out and sees a message alert. It feels like a rock has settled in her stomach as she unlocks the screen, awaiting the inevitable sneering words from her father's PA. If people were talking, there was no way it wasn't getting back to that woman.

It's a text from Mabel, checking in to make sure she was alright. Relieved, she slips her phone back into her purse. Scott watches her, silent now, one eyebrow raised. 

"You alright?"

Even though it does not reach her eyes, her smile convinces him - she's perfected that art. 

"Of course! I'm glad you said something though, I would have hated for someone to think they couldn't come up and chat or whatever. I should go though - I can't show up to the Delta house in your boxers."

"The scandal! But yeah, get going. Can't keep you all to myself, I guess."

...

 

Nose deep in her economics notes, Pacifica doesn’t notice Mabel’s return until the girl lets loose a huge sigh.

“You’re alive!” Mabel exclaims, fumbling with her armload of grocery bags to wrap an arm around Pacifica’s shoulder. 

Pacifica startles, the highlighter in her hand skittering across the paragraph she’d been marking. She frowns at the errant pink line, but then smiles up at her roommate.

“I am, sorry if I made you worry. I went a little beyond my means last night. Do you need a hand with those?”

“Nah, I got it, but thanks, girly.”

Mabel chatters about the event she went to last night with a girl from her design class as she loads up her side of the fridge. Half-focused on her notes, Pacifica manages the obligatory responses, even nailing the appropriate sound of shock when Mabel exclaims, “And they’d painted all of the dingles in UV paint!”. 

“Ha ha, yeah, it was pretty crazy…” Mabel says.

She closes the fridge and takes a seat at the table, gently pushing Pacifica’s books and binder aside.

“Hey!” Pacifica yelps, but then she catches sight of the look on Mabel’s face. Her roommate props her head up on folded hands, eyes bright, smile wide. Nothing good can come of this.

“Soooo….” Mabel begins.

“Mabel…”

“I heard….”

“Yes?”

“That you….”

“Come on, I need to study, I’m behind.”

“And Dipper….”

The bottom drops out of Pacifica’s stomach.

“Finally made peace!” 

Mabel throws her arms up, jubilant, grinning, and holds them there as she waits for Pacifica to react. Pacifica blinks.

“Oh. Yeah, we came to a truce.”

“Thank _goodness_. He’s been a total pain for the last week. Can I start letting him over again sometimes?”

The air rushes out of Pacifica’s lungs as the words hit her. Dipper hadn’t been over, not once, since their fight, and Mabel had been rather absent as well. Sure, things had been tense between the two girls for the first day or so, but they’d made amends well before the weekend - crocodile purse and all. That Mabel had been avoiding having her brother, her _twin_ over-

“Mabel, of course! He’s your twin, you didn’t have to…” Pacifica falls silent, chewing at her bottom lip.

Mabel stares at her straight on, unflinching. The hard set of her jaw is unfamiliar.

"Pacifica, I meant what I said when I told Dipper you didn't owe him anything, that he can't just expect you to want his company because of our past, or our situation. You were clearly uncomfortable after what happened, and I didn't help _at all_ , so I thought 'Alright, Mabel. Everyone needs some time for their chill pills to set in, and until then, no Dipper around the dorm'."

Her serious expression fades as quickly as it came. Mabel purses her lips and puffs up her cheeks, saying, "He's kind of really annoying and a dweeb sometimes anyway."

At Pacifica's mildly shocked look, Mabel shrugs. "I'm allowed to say it, he's my brother."

“Well. Wow. Thank you,” Pacifica says, barely able to hold Mabel’s gaze. That Mabel would do that, _for her_. 

“It was nothing, don’t even think about it!”

“No. I mean it,” she says, the ferocity of her tone surprising even herself. “People don’t just… do stuff like. Not for people who cause them the kind of trouble I caused you.”

“Sure they do!” Mabel exclaims, “All the time! Maybe we need to introduce you to the right kind of people. Ryan, the girl from my design class that took me to the show last night - she’s great, you two would probably get along. I mean, she’s a little ‘anti-capitalism big money’ and whatever but I’m sure you guys could look past that-”

“Thank you, Mabel,” Pacifica says. It works, and Mabel shores up her train of thought with a hearty, “You’re welcome!”

Their conversation fades out, Pacifica returning to her notes, Mabel rustling around the kitchen, preparing food. Pacifica waves away the offer of ‘Super Awesome Dinner Time Tuna Syrup Chips’, having eaten at the house earlier, and is even able to school her face into neutrality rather than disgust. There’s a peace to it. 

From the other side of the table, Mabel chuckles over something on her phone as she eats, the sound only ever interrupted by the gentle rush of textbook pages turning. They finish around the same time. It’s as Pacifica is packing her pens and highlighters back into her purse that a flash of pink catches her eye. 

“Oh, Mabel, I think this is yours,” she says, pulling out the bowtie from last night. Mabel looks up and frowns.

“Yeah, that’s mine. Where did you get that?”

“Dipper was wearing it at the party last night,” Pacifica says as she hands it to her roommates, “He said something about you not helping him get ready, so I think he just took it.”

“What a jerk!” Mabel exclaims, taking the tie and wrapping it around her neck. She makes quick work of the bow, tying it neatly at her throat. “It looks _so_ much better on me as it is.”

“True enough,” Pacifica laughs. She does not reflect on how awkward it looked against Dipper’s shirt last night, how her fingers had first strayed along the skin below his ear before tugging the bowtie off of him and putting it on herself. 

"How did you get ahold of this anyway?"

The question is innocent enough, not one that should have Pacifica feeling backed into a corner. It wasn't as though _Mabel_ could read her thoughts.

"Uh... Lillian gave it to me this afternoon. Dipper left it in her room last night. She's my Big!"

The feint works, Mabel giggling at the mention of Lillian.

"Your big what?" she asks with a snort.

Pacifica rolls her eyes, but can't help laughing along with her. 

"Big, like big sister. She's the one who put together all of my pledge week challenges, " Pacifica pauses, gesturing to the stuffed crocodile-turned-purse, "And she's like my guide in the sorority. We've got this whole family thing: she's my Big and I'm her Little, her Big is my Grand-Big, and so on. We'll have to do events together and are making paddles and... Basically spending all of our time together."

She stifles the sigh gathering in her chest. Scott was right - second maybe to Mabel, Lillian was the nicest person Pacifica had yet to meet, and there was literally _no_ reason for her to be reticent about the older girl.

"You know, all this sorority stuff seemed kind of cray before, but that sounds kind of fun, having all of those people who are like… your family.”

Mabel cups her chin in hand and her eyes drift to the ceiling, likely ruminating on whatever vision of a sorority she’d concocted. With the last book in her backpack, Pacifica stands up and shoulders her bags. 

“I guess it’s… not so bad,” Pacifica says, her smile watery, “I’m heading to bed though, and you should too. Early classes tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay mom, thanks. G’night.”

Her hand is on the doorknob when Mabel calls out, “Hey, thanks for making peace with my dumb brother.”

“He’s not so bad either,” she says, swallowing the thousand other things she wants to say.

…

Sweaters and long socks begin to predominate Mabel’s wardrobe as the days grow cooler. It seems she has a unique one for each day, and Pacifica begins to question whether she’s seen her roommate wear the same one twice. Not as though much time is spent with Mabel in their little dorm room. The weeks roll on, and Pacifica hustles from class, to the library, to dinner at the Delta house, to her room to change, and back to the house in an endless loop. 

Everything begins to blur: there’s the planning of the Delta Fall formal and the week of philanthropy and parties with their partner frat that come with it (despite her ‘unapproachable’ nature, she’s been invited to sit on the social committee, and hasn’t let Scott down for it yet); the looming Chemistry practical and international law essay; parties on the weekends (she limits her shots to 3 when Lillian brings Dipper, though he always plies her for more); dinners with Scott (he pays half of the time, and she ignores the increasingly frantic automatic texts from her bank on the nights she pays for herself); dinners at the house; and, of course, what Mabel has taken to lovingly calling ‘Third floor family murderfest/board game night’ (weekly, with both twins, when Pacifica can make it. Sometimes Dipper invites Lillian. Mabel loves her.).

Most of the Delta girls - even the ones not living at the house - do the bulk of their studying at the house, and despite the general ruckus and constant distractions, Pacifica is no exception. There are appearances to be made, upheld. She’s hunched over her law text, digging for quotes, when Lillian plops down on the couch next to her.

“Hey Southeast,” she says, leaning over to glance at Pacifica’s work, “Midterm blues?”

Pacifica finishes making a note in her book before she looks up at her Big. At the moment, there couldn’t be a bigger contrast between them. Pacifica’s lilac skirt is wrinkled after twelve hours away from her room, and her blouse - hidden by the itchy cardigan she refuses to take off - is sweat stained and tight. She can practically feel the dark, heavy circles under her eyes, a sensation no amount of concealer has been able to cover. By some magic (family blood pact? second year Delta demonic arrangement?), Lillian seems to glisten. Pacifica can’t quite reconcile how sweat, yoga pants, and an old Delta Mother’s Day shirt could combine to make the older girl look _glamorous_ , but that’s exactly the effect created. 

“It’s fine,” Pacifica says with a tight smile, but she isn’t able to keep all of the weariness out of her voice. 

Lillian settles and stretches her arms across the back of the couch. 

“I remember those days, not so long ago. A first semester freshman, young, ready to take on the world _and_ 15 credit hours. I don’t miss being pre-law - you’ve picked a rough road for yourself, Pacifica.”

Snapping her book shut, Pacifica contemplates the merits of moving her studying to the library before the words register. 

“But I’m undeclared,” she says, and it’s true, to a point.

Lillian rolls her eyes and brings one of her hands around, inspecting an uneven edge. She doesn't even look away when she speaks next.

“Come on, I know a pre-law schedule when I see one. Education? Psychology? You? Give me a break. Not to say those aren't great majors or anything, but they're not Pacifica majors."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Pacifica asks, attempting to sound shocked, but her stomach sinks. Lillian absolutely has her pegged.

"Plus, your Great-Great-Grandbig went to law school," she continues, "And I _used_ to be pre-law, so it practically runs in the family!"

 _Not the family that counts_ Pacifica thinks, but the words stay firmly planted in her throat. 

"I'm undeclared," she repeats, voice firm and flat. 

Lillian rears back at her words, lips thinning. With a sinking feeling, Pacifica watches as a frown shapes itself on Lillian's face. She'd messed up, pissed the older girl off, and Lillian was likely to go off and talk about it and-

"I get it," Lillian says instead. She's still frowning, but her voice is soft. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Lillian asks, "You know, Pacifica, your sisters are supposed to be like your family, and we're all here for you, whenever you might need it."

Pacifica stares down at her lap, concentrating to keep her hands from fidgeting with the hem of her blouse. She feels exhausted.

"Just..." Pacifica starts, "Please just don't mention this to anyone, okay? I know people talk and I'd rather keep _this_ ," she gestures to her law notes, "On the down low."

The lull between them is far from comfortable. Pacifica gives in and toys with the bottom of her blouse. The couch creaks a little as Lillian shifts to wrap an arm around her shoulders. 

“You’ve got it. But remember, any time you want to talk, I’m here.”

Unable to think of a response, Pacifica simply nods. It’s not until Lillian gives her a quick side hug and then pulls away that Pacifica can force herself to make eye contact once more. The frown has melted away from Lillian’s face, and she casually pulls her phone from her pocket, checking the time. Out of the corner of her eye, Pacifica can see Lillian has a few texts - she opens one, reads it, and giggles through her response.

“Oh, hey, I came over to bug you in the first place because Dipper and I were going to meet up and get $2 tacos down at the strip, and I wanted to see if you wanted to come!”

Her stomach sours at the thought of tacos, paying, and Dipper. Still, Pacifica smiles and shakes her head.

“No thanks, I was just going to have dinner at the house. I’ve still got a lot of work to do on this essay…”

“Suit yourself,” Lillian says, pushing herself up from the couch, “I hear cook’s making asparagus tonight… definitely not looking forward to using the bathrooms after _that_ meal.”

Lillian wrinkles her nose but laughs, and gives Pacifica a wave before heading upstairs to her shared room. Like most of the older girl, Lillian lived at the Delta house, and the option would be available to Pacifica next year. Pacifica sinks back into the couch, doing her best to tune out the chatter and laughter from the other girls studying in the living room and adjoining dining room, and once again contemplates the merits of the library. 

…

Thursday sees the end of the International Law paper, and features the beginning of her cram session for the following Tuesday’s statistics exam. She’s already turned down an invitation from Scott to a party at his house, and from the way Mabel is eyeing her from the kitchen table, Pacifica is going to have to break another heart that night.

“Pacifica…?” Mabel starts.

“I have a test on Tuesday, and there’s class tomorrow Mabel, I can’t go out tonight.”

Mabel has the dignity to blow a raspberry at her before rolling her eyes. “Lame!” she exclaims, “It’s not like you’re not going to go party it up with all your Greeks this weekend.”

A twinge of guilt pulls at her chest as she closes her book and turns to Mabel. Besides the occasional game night, they hadn’t had the opportunity to do much together, and as impossible as it might have seemed years ago, Pacifica did enjoy Mabel’s company. As it was, it might be nice to get out of the usual grind of frat parties.

“I’m sorry Mabel, I really can’t tonight. But, next time, I absolutely promise that I’ll come along to whatever event or party you go out to.”

Those must have been the magic words: Mabel leaps up from the table and crosses the room. One hand is outstretched, all fingers closed into a fist except for her pinky, which sticks straight up. Mabel raises her pinky to Pacifica’s face. A wide grin lights up her face, and she’s practically vibrating in anticipation. Pacifica stares at the pinky.

“Um. What?”

“Pacifica! You have to pinky promise!”

“O...kay…”

Uncertain, Pacifica mimics Mabel’s gesture. Mabel hooks her pinky around Pacifica’s and shakes it once. If possible, Mabel looks even more delighted afterwards.

“So… what exactly was that, Mabel?”

“A pinky promise! Do rich girls not do those?”

Pacifica makes a face, but Mabel’s too caught up in her excitement to notice. She decides to play it off.

“No, most rich girls make promises and then immediately turn around and break them. Back-stabbing is kind of a thing in the rich girl community.”

“Yeesh,” Mabel says, smile dimming, “Anyway, a pinky promise is an unbreakable pact between two souls, meaning it must be upheld, or the breaker will suffer _extreme consequences_! By making a pinky allegiance, you, Pacifica Elise Northwest, have sworn to me that you will attend the next thing I go to!”

Mabel throws her arms out, jazz hands high and wide, and Pacifica dissolves into uncontrollable giggles. It’s so _perfect_ , and so _Mabel_ , that she can’t help but regret not going out with her tonight. 

“O-okay!” Pacifica manages, “Deal!”

“Yay! Now that that’s settled, I’d better go get ready for my very first real live college party!” 

Mabel’s eyes widen, and the noise that comes from her mouth soon reaches a pitch that Pacifica is certain only dogs can hear. She rushes into her room, and moments later Pacifica hears the sound of drawers being pulled open at high speeds.

“Mabel, do you think you’re going to be drinking tonight?” Pacifica calls. She remembers the first night she’d come back to the dorm after a night of partying, Dipper in tow, and the resolute set of Mabel’s hands on her hips. 

“Maybe,” Mabel says, poking her head out of her door, “I don’t know yet. I’ve only ever been to a party with alcohol once in high school, and I… didn’t do very well.” 

She purses her lips, looking less enthusiastic than before.

“And I do get on to Dipper all of the time about drinking, so maybe I shouldn’t be such a hypocrite…”

The vibrance drains from Mabel’s face, and she looks back and forth from Pacifica to the sequined sweater in her hand, indecisive.

“Maybe I should just stay in… I am behind on my work.”

“No, Mabel, that’s not what I meant at all!” Pacifica says, “I just wanted to let you know that, if you do decide to drink and need someone to come get you or talk to or whatever that I’ll be in all night. Have fun, but be safe, okay?”

It takes less than a second for Mabel to reenergize, and suddenly it’s as though the sun has risen again. All smile, Mabel shouts Pacifica a thanks before diving back into her room. A few minutes later, bass-heavy music pours out from Mabel’s room, and Pacifica can hear Mabel screech and wub with whatever bizarre dubstep mix she’s getting ready to. Pacifica rolls her eyes and gets back to work.

…

Someone pounds on the door. 

Pages of notes go sliding to the floor as Pacifica jumps. She looks around, eyes bleary, and blinks until she can see the time over the oven. 2:13 in the morning - she must have dozed off thirty minutes or so ago. The dorm is still, and Mabel’s bedroom door is open, so she figures she’s alone. 

And then someone knocks on the door again, and Pacifica remembers what woke her up in the first place. The sound is loud, heavy, and her mind immediately jumps to the time the cops came to break up a house party she’d been at in high school. She and some other girls had snuck out of their rooms for the night, and had barely made it out of the house through a back window before the police flooded the place. But she’s alone, in her dorm, at 2 am, and the most questionable thing she’s been doing is pushing her body to its physical limits. Slowly, she stands from the couch.

“Mabel?” a voice comes through the door, thin and muffled. “Pacifica?” 

More knocking.

She recognizes the voice, but is still shocked at the state Dipper Pines is in when she pulls open the door. Barefoot and in his boxers, Dipper’s bedraggled frame half-collapses into her arms as he pulls himself through the door. Shocked, she lets him hold onto her shoulders to steady himself, though he’s still swaying even after he manages to hold himself up on two feet. 

“Pacifica, is Mabel here?” he croaks. 

“N-no,” she says, eyes wide as she takes in the mess of a boy before her.

From the lopsided mess of his hair and the way his white tee-shirt clings to his chest with sweat, Dipper must have been sleeping not long ago, and not well. His gaze is hazy, face blotchy, and in the silence that stretches between them she can hear how his breath comes out in fast, wheezing gasps.

“Dipper, are you- what’s wrong?”

“Bad dreams,” he mutters, scrubbing his face with a shaking hand, “Like, really, really bad dreams, and I was just hoping that maybe Mabel would be…”

Pacifica closes the door to their dorm and gestures to the couch.

“She’s out with some friends at a party,” she says, “But sit down. You can, uh, you can wait here for her, if you want.”

Dipper stumbles over to the couch, once again rubbing at his face. The last time Pacifica had seen him - a week or so ago, with Lillian, at a party - Dipper was once again clean shaven, but now his chin is engulfed in a shadow of stubble. It only adds to how worn he looks. Pacifica hovers at the edge of the small living space, watching. She wants to sit next to him. Put her hands on his shoulders. 

Instead, she pulls out her phone. 

“I’ll call Mabel,” Pacifica says, briefly turning her back to him, “See if she’ll come back.”

His thanks is so muted, so shaky, that it hardly sounds like words at all. 

Pacifica paces the line between the open kitchen and the living room as it rings on the other end. Halfway through, the call is answered. There’s a split second of incomprehensible noise before the call ends. Sighing, she glances at Dipper. He’s rough. Pacifica crosses the small room and sits down on the couch, on the very far end.

Once again, Pacifica dials Mabel. She side-eyes Dipper as the call rings through; he's hunched over with his palms face up, staring at his wrists. It's the first time she's seen the mark on his left wrist completely unobscured. Discolored and raised, the scarred skin looks as though it had been repeatedly carved at with the tip of a pocket knife. It's not fresh, perhaps a few years old, but she nonetheless shivers at the sight of it.

"Hey, what's up?" Mabel's voice breaks Pacifica's thoughts.

"Hey, Mabel, it's Pacifi-"

"Ha! I got ya good! I'm not here right now, leave a message."

With a huff, Pacifica ends the call and tries again. This time, it goes straight to voicemail. 

"Mabel, it's Pacifica. It's super important, call me back ASAP."

"Same thing happened when I called," Dipper sighs. He's still staring at his wrists.

She texts Mabel once, twice, and a third time, all variations on "GET BACK NOW". Pacifica then sets her phone on the wooden arm of the sofa and, unsure of what to do, folds her hands in her lap. The silence between them settles so deeply that Pacifica can hear his ragged, uneven breathing. 

"So, uh, I'm going to go to bed... Can I get you anything?" she asks, starting to rise, "If you want to crash on the couch or, uh"

Her movement startles him, as if jarring him from sleep. A hand circles her wrist, and she's caught, hovering between seated and standing.

"Please stay," Dipper rasps, "This- this is going to sound crazy, but I... I don't really think I can be alone right now."

Alarmed, Pacifica yanks her hand away. Seconds pass as they stare at one another, her frazzled brain struggling to churn out a decision. She stands in front of him as if cemented there.

"You know, it's okay. It's fine, I... I need... Go to bed, I kept you up late enough."

Pacifica sits. If she's being honest with herself, she's not sure why. Dealing with Dipper's - or anyone else's - problems is not how she anticipated spending her Thursday night. However, it's been years since she's seen someone look so haunted.

"Sleep is for the under caffeinated," she says in response. The smile she gets in return is more muscle spasm around his cheeks than anything else, but Pacifica counts it as a start.

"Thanks."

"So... Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

“Like I said, bad dream.”

“Yeah, okay, want to tell me what’s _actually_ going on?”

Dipper hangs his head and sighs. The following breaths are forced, deeper - calming himself before he speaks again. 

“You really don’t want to hear it,” he finally says, and there’s an edge to his voice. Almost like a warning.

“Maybe not,” Pacifica says, “But you can’t show up at my dorm at 2 am on a Thursday night - or, well, Friday morning, I guess - shaking and almost in tears, and then not expect to have to spill.”

“Way to call a guy out,” Dipper mutters, but he raises his head and meets her eyes. Brown irises swim in a sea of red-streaked whites, and for a moment she thinks he actually _is_ about to start crying.

“It’s kind of a long story,” he continues, “Tragic backstory and all.”

“Come on, Dipper.”

Nodding, Dipper takes a long, slow breath. He rubs at his wrist. 

"My early teenage years were...pretty rough."

Pacifica nods. It's true enough of herself, and she's hardly surprised that smart, stubborn Dipper experienced the same. 

"And I'm sure you're thinking, 'Yeah, yeah Dipper, get a life, everyone had shitty teenage years'," he says, trying to laugh and failing. Dipper is watching her intently, trying to gauge the way she reacts to his words. As close as he is, she can see the blue-black of lost sleep that bruises under his eyes.

"Give me a bit more credit than that," she says, motioning for him to continue.

"I'm serious, Pacifica," he says, voice rising, "This isn't like some-"

"Whatever it is, I believe you. 150 year family curse axe ghost, remember?"

Dipper pulls back, eyes widening. Through the stubble and the tired eyes he looks, for a split second, like the little boy she knew years ago. Putting a hand to his forehead, he lets out a strained chuckle. Just as it seems about to end, the laughter catches and intensifies. His shoulders stutter, and he wraps his arms around his waist as he doubles over. It's not a happy sound: it reminds her of sour milk and clenched teeth.

"Dipper? Dipper!"

She reaches across the inches between them and shakes his knee. After a moment he looks up, laughter settling under her touch. He wipes a tear from the corner of one eye, and she's not entirely sure it's out of mirth.

"Sorry, got kind of carried away there."

Through his unsteady breathing and desolate air he fixes her with a watery smile. Dipper's face is flushed from laughter, an improvement from his earlier paleness.

"You know what I like about you?"

She stiffens. What was it about this kid that kept tripping her up?

"That I'm hilarious and humble and perfect in every way?" Pacifica asks, pulling an over-the-top smile and fluttering her eyelashes dramatically. She forces her shoulders to relax. 

Her hand still rests on his knee, and her brain flickers back to the time when their positions were reversed. Traitorous, the following thought ponders if Dipper is considering the same things she was weeks ago, on that couch. Pacifica wonders if his heart is thundering as loudly as hers.

Dipper's laugh is weak, and it snaps her back to reality. This is her _friend_ , and he's _not okay_ right now, and needs her _help_.

"I _was_ going to say I like how you immediately knew this was about something abnormal that happened in Gravity Falls, and how you're so completely unfazed by it. But yeah, that too."

"Mabel said the same thing. About not finding that stuff weird."

"Twins," he says with a shrug. 

Mabel must be a part of whatever is upsetting him, because what little humor he'd had drains away. He rubs at his left wrist.

"You were saying? About your teenage years...?"

From the way his spine straightens and he gazes straight ahead, it's evident Dipper is steeling himself for whatever it is he's about to say. Pacifica bites her lip and waits.

"When I was fourteen, I was possessed by a demon," Dipper says. 

As soon as the words are out Dipper flinches, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his fists. With a cold feeling, she realizes that she's likely not the first person he's told, and that their reactions were less-than-supportive. There's nothing she can think of to say; her hand tightens on his knee.

Seconds pass, and in the silence Dipped must figure out that she's not going to mock or rebuke him - he cracks open one eye.

"Let me rephrase," he continues, "I let myself be possessed by a demon."

"Oh."

At this it's impossible for Pacifica not to react - she knows things were never sane or reasonable in Gravity Falls, but Dipper's words threaten to take the small grains of normalcy Pacifica's managed to cultivate and throw them back out to sea. Naturally Dipper had been into all of that weird, nerdy stuff she'd teased him about (and had saved her life) when she was a kid, but demons? Possession? 

"It sounds stupid, I know, even for me or Gravity Falls-" he says, and seriously, can he read minds? 

"But just understand that I messed up. Bad. Like, super bad. It took a while to fix and make sure that he was fully gone, and during that time I... Was never totally in control of myself."

He's rubbing at his wrist again, over the bizarre mark there, and Pacifica suddenly understands.

"Mabel has a scar there too, doesn't she?" Pacifica asks in a whisper.

Swallowing hard, Dipper nods. He doesn't turn to look at her, instead casting his gaze down to the carpet. 

"Yeah, that's my fault." It's barely a whisper.

With no certainty as to how he might react, Pacifica slides her hand over to his. She gently turns over his hand, revealing the piercing scar there, and then fits her palm against his. The touch is light, loose, and he doesn't pull away.

"He didn't just control my body," Dipper continues, voice not much stronger than before, "He got into my dreams. Inception type stuff. Weeks, months where I was never sure if I was awake, or asleep, or being possessed, or just nudged around. I'd wake up from a nightmare to find myself in another one." 

Stopping here, his gaze grows glassy. Minute spasms jump across his face, as if he's reliving all of those dreams at once. She wraps her fingers around his. Despite how very near still he seems, his heart beats so hard that Pacifica can feel his pulse in her hand.

"I'd live out an entire day, perfectly normal, and then wake up at the start of the day to find that none of it had even happened... Needless to say, the therapy costs after they fixed it weren't pretty... And neither was trying to explain to our parents why I came back from summer vacation having panic attacks and refusing to sleep." 

The Dipper she knows might laugh at the end of this - he was always laughing, be it happy, self-conscious, bitter, or sarcastic, but laughing nonetheless. Everything about the Dipper next to her is flat, listless.

"I'd spend weeks going as long as I could without sleep, being terrified that the minute I closed my eyes, I'd wake up and find out none of it was real. When I did fall asleep, I usually had bad nightmares. They had to medicate me for over a year."

"And now?" she asks.

"The dreams had stopped almost a year ago. I was starting to think I was finally done with it, letting go. Would be able to, you know, function like a real human being and all. But tonight..."

"Yeah," because it's all she can say.

And Dipper latches onto her hand and squeezes. His palm is sticky with sweat, and his grip painful, but Pacifica does not pull away. She can't imagine half of what he's been through - not being in control, unable to distinguish between reality and fiction - but she knows that strangeness and bad decisions usually make poor bedfellows.

"Pacifica, I don't know if I'm awake or not."

There's no question behind what she does next, no hesitation even though it's something she's never done before: Pacifica wraps Dipper in a hug and draws him to her. As if by instinct he buries his face into the crook of her neck and folds his arms around her; she has a moment to consider how well he fits there before the damp of his tears hits her skin. He sobs quietly. She holds him.

If she were any better at comforting someone, she might have muttered calming platitudes or twined her fingers through his hair. As it is, Pacifica has never held or been held like this, so she waits for his breathing to steady and his sobs to settle. She does the only thing she can think of.

"It should be obvious you're not dreaming, Pines," she says, propping her chin on the top of his head, "Because I'm here."

Pacifica is glad his head is still tucked away when he says, in a muffled voice, "Uh...um... Yeah, so actually that doesn't help me, uh..." as her face flares bright red at the implication. Belatedly, she realizes he can probably hear her thudding heart, close to her chest as she is.

"Can I... Can I pay you to pretend that didn't just happen?"

Dipper snorts, a strange feeling on her skin, and lifts his head. He's in worse shape than before, puffy eyelids adding to dark circles, skin red and blotchy. 

"You're right, the Pacifica in my dreams is always _much_ nicer," he teases. 

Placing both hands on his chest, she pushes him back and rolls her eyes. He doesn't resist - in fact, Dipper lets his body go limp so that he teeters backwards and then collapses across the couch. The uncomfortable way he's splayed half-on, half-off the couch, legs facing her, doesn't prevent Pacifica from smacking him on the knee.

"Well the Dipper in my dreams isn't such a big dork," she says, crossing her arms with a sniff. 

Immediately she groans, putting a hand to her forehead, but it's too late: a shadow of a grin crosses Dipper's lips, and he starts propping himself up on his elbows. 

"Do my ears deceive me?"

"Yes," Pacifica deadpans, but he carries on.

"Pacifica Northwest-"

"Dipper, no-"

"Admitting that she, Pacifica Northwest-"

"You already said that-"

" _Dreams_ about lil' ol' me-"

"I do not!"

"Every night!"

"You're an ass!" she exclaims, but her protests are weakened by the hiccoughs of laughter that have _her_ falling back into the arm of the couch.

"Guilty as charged."

As if to emphasize the point, he swings his legs up onto the couch and attempts to arrange them. From end-to-end the cheap wood and padding dorm couch is six inches too short for Dipper to stretch out on alone, let alone with another body trying to do the same. His legs tangle with her knees, his feet prod at her stomach and side, and she ends up with a heel pressed into her cheek. Her legs fly out in retaliation, kicking at whatever they come in contact with, be it thigh, gut, chin, or hand. Laughter, hoarse but genuine, emanates from the other side of the couch. 

Pacifica shoves his legs off of her and kicks out once more, fighting for more couch space. His feet meet hers and they push against each other, half-cyclists, half-sumo wrestlers. Her giggles turn into squawks as Dipper pushes hard, but she presses back until they've nearly reached a stalemate. For a split second she worries their laughter is loud enough to be heard into the dorm hall, but then Dipper's foot is back on her cheek and she has to take revenge. Pacifica heaves herself up and takes both of his feet in her hands. She pushes them back over his chest and leans, so that she's looming over him. 

Looking up at her with a wide smile, Dipper lets his legs go limp; without any support, she pitches forward and collapses onto his chest.

"Just despicable," she mutters into his collarbone. 

Heat rises on her cheeks as the boy beneath her quivers and falls into hysterics, but she smiles nonetheless. The air around them is lighter, the knot in her gut a little looser. Propping herself up, she smiles down at him, and rolls her eyes when he smiles back.

"Better?" she asks.

It's his turn to roll his eyes, but his smile doesn't fade. 

"Yes," he concedes, "Who knew all it took to get over years of emotional trauma was ten minutes of teasing a Northwest."

"Don't get used to it, Pines. I bite back!"

Proving her point, she punches him in the shoulder, provoking another laugh.

"I wouldn't have it-"

Dipper's words are lost in the loud ringing of her phone. Pacifica scrambles off of him, hands searching under cushions before the muffled sound stops. 

"Hello?" 

"Pacificaaaa!"

 _It's Mabel_ , she mouths to Dipper. It's unnecessary, given how loud Mabel is yelling on the other end. A frown tugs at his lips.

"Mabel, I've been trying to get ahold of you-"

"Pacifica, Pacifica, you should be here, there's a boy here who has horse head instead of a person head and he-"

"Mabel, that's great but-"

"Glitter everywhere and a black light you should-"

"Mabel, _Mabel_ , this is important, your brother-"

Dipper reaches out and snatches the phone from her hand. Mabel's chatter continues for a split second, then the call goes dead.

"What the hell, Dipper?" Pacifica spits, grabbing her phone back and dialing Mabel again.

"Please don't," he says, hand outstretched as if to take it again. 

Mabel picks up before he can take it.

"Whoa girly, what happened?" she shrieks. Heavy bass pounds in the background, but despite the shouts and cheers on the other end, Mabel's voice is still skull-splitting. Pacifica pulls the phone away from her ear.

"Look, your du-"

Dipper shakes his head and mouths _No, don't_ over and over again.

"My what?" 

"Your d..." Pacifica pauses, taking in Dipper's face. He's still shaking his head, and he raises his hands in supplication.

"You're drinking for the first time," she says with a sigh, "And I just wanted to make sure you were being safe."

"I'm doing great! I'm having so much fuuuun I wish you were heeereeee you're really so nice we're biffles forever!"

"I'm glad you're having fun, wish I were there too," Pacifica says, too focused on glaring at Dipper. 

"I gotta go the horse man, oh geez, he's got Smile Dip, hot Belgian waffles, okay love you, byeeee!"

"Yeah, bye Mabel."

The call hasn't even ended when Pacifica springs back over to Dipper, shoving a finger in his chest.

"What the hell, Dipper?" she asks again, "You come over here shaking and in tears, asking for your sister, and then you just change your mind? If she weren't so distracted I would have looked like a total idiot!"

Dipper pushes her hand aside and sits up. Pacifica is beginning to recognize the curve his body creates when he slumps over and stares at the floor. She balls her hands in her lap to keep from shoving his shoulders back and tilting his head up, but it's a hard fight.

"Sorry. Sorry, it's seriously so stupid but..." 

His sentence ends in a frustrated grunt, and he rubs at his wrist.

"Mabel was enjoying herself, and she's spent too much of her time and life trying to fix my problems... But I've gotta solve them myself. I'm here, I'm a grown up now..."

To Pacifica, he looks more lost little boy than adult. Still, she nods.

"It's hard though. Relying on someone for so long, but knowing that you have to let them do their own thing. You know?"

There's nothing she can say to that, not really, and Dipper accepts her shrug with no question. He wipes at his face with the heel of his hand, pre-empting the tears. 

"I fucked up so badly, and, and I'm so fucked up, and somehow I have to-"

Whatever he has to do is stopped short with the onslaught of sobs, and he folds into a shuddering, shaking heap. Eyes widening, Pacifica raises her hands, placating. She begins to reach towards him, then pulls back, and then stretches out again. Finally, she rests one hand on his back.

"Dipper?"

The only response she gets is crying, heavier than before. His body rocks and quivers under her touch; she places her other hand on his back, barely placing any pressure there. 

"Dipper... Dipper, don't- don't... don't cry," she says. 

Pacifica moves her hands up and down his back in slow circles. Every time he takes a wheezing breath she jerks her hands back, then sets them down again. The uneasy cycle continues for a few minutes, but Dipper still hiccoughs and sobs. 

So she does the only thing that worked before, and tugs him into her arms. This time, Dipper presses his head to her chest. Pacifica holds her arms around him, elbows sticking out, and rubs his back as he cries.

"Just stop already," she murmurs a few minutes later, "You're probably like, dehydrated or something."

He remains huddled into her. Lips move against her shirt as Dipper mumbles a disgruntled "You're terrible at this."

Despite herself, she lets out a chuckle. 

"Fine, I know. Let's just say I didn't have many good role models when it came to comforting people."

Slowly, his shudders recede, and after a few minutes Dipper's breathing seems to even out. Pacifica's not sure if it's because of her, or that the feelings had simply finished running their course, but Dipper sounds almost normal when he speaks again.

"I bet your dad just rang a bell and commanded you to stop crying when you were a kid," he says.

Pacifica tenses, and her hands freeze on his back. Heart pounding, she prompts herself to start moving again. Nothing happens.

"Pacifica?" 

Dipper looks up, eyes widening in panic.

"Pacifica, no, no, it was a joke! I can't believe I would, I'm such an idiot! I didn't mean it, but of course-" 

She wants to push him away. His hands settle on her shoulders, his face looks so sad, and all she wants to do is push him away but instead she lowers her hands and folds them into her lap. Immediately Dipper moves his hands and shifts until he is no longer facing her. They sit, side by side, and let six inches and silence separate them.

If she were better she would laugh it off. Deny it. If she were better, it wouldn't have happened in the first place. The ifs continue rolling off in her head, and the longer they do, the more and more it sounds less like her and more like her father. If she were better. It is not until Dipper speaks again that Pacifica registers that he's still there.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"Don't be."

"It was a stupid joke."

"I know."

"I'm such an idiot."

"This isn't a new discovery."

"... I'm trying to be sincere, here."

"I don't need your pity, Dipper."

His head makes a loud thud when it connects with the wall behind the couch. He pulls a hand through his hair and lets out a beleaguered groan.

"Pacifica, do you think it's humanly possible for two people to be any more terrible at communicating than you and I? Because right now I really don't think it is. We are literally the worst."

"There's a difference between being good at communicating and not wanting to share all of the shitty things that have happened to me," she snaps.

"I get that, but I shared all of my issues."

"Look, I don't want to talk about it," she says, her voice hard and flat, "There isn't enough space in this dorm for our combined emotional trauma."

"Don't you trust me?" Dipper says with a sigh.

"I don't really know you."

The answer rolls off her tongue, fluid, and it's the first easy thing she's done all night. His look of hurt disbelief is also easy; what will follow is predictable as well: an insult, backlash from her casual cruelty, or tears, followed by a storming out. Bed, crying into her pillow until she can convince herself it wasn't important, moving on.

"Yes you do," Dipper says. But of course, Dipper is never easy. Infuriatingly not like the others, before.

She could protest, _should_ protest, should cut the conversation short and take some time for them to ease back into their shaking tightrope of a friendship. The fact is, the narrow, bearded face of the young man less than a half foot away is not one she knows that well, nor are the dark circles and reddened eyes. The deep voice, scraped raw from crying, the unsettling scar at his wrist, those aren't things Pacifica knows either. 

"You know I have a twin," he continues, "And you know I'm studying biology."

"That's not what I'm talking about, Dipper."

"You know that I like to argue, that I'll press a subject until everyone else is sick of it. You know that I have a weird Great Uncle in a weird town where I spent years getting into way too much trouble."

When he looks at her like that, wide-eyed and earnest, Pacifica imagines she sees a hint of that little boy from years ago. That, now that, is familiar, and it makes her stomach twinge. Dipper shoves his bangs away from his forehead.

"You know I have a stupid-looking birthmark, and that I keep it hidden the best I can. Not everyone is privy to that."

Without warning, he reaches over and takes her hand. Long fingers weave through hers. His voice is quiet when he speaks again.

"You know that I let myself get possessed. Only a handful of people know that."

He gives her hand a quick squeeze.

"Get it? Handful?"

"You're such a dork," Pacifica groans. 

"See? You do know me."

Ostrich-like, Pacifica pretends that if she can't see him, Dipper can't see the heat that swells to her cheeks. She looks down at their joined hands. Experimentally, Pacifica runs her thumb over his. He doesn't pull away.

"And I know you, too."

She peers up at him through her eyelashes. The look she should be going for is defiant, or dismissive, but Pacifica settles on 'as neutral as she can seem without completely falling apart'. 

"I know you're from Gravity Falls-"

"Duh."

"But you never spent the school year there. Only summers."

Given that he and Mabel were only around during the summer as well, Pacifica finds this little insight surprising. She wonders where he might have learned this, if she's ever mentioned it to Mabel.

"I know that your favorite color is lilac."

"No fair, Lillian told you that."

He chuckles, and Pacifica's never been so relieved to hear him continue. She'd broached a topic she was not willing to follow through on.

"I know that you're good at competitive mini-golf, and too competitive for your own good."

"That was years ago," she mutters.

"I know that a lot has changed since we were kids."

"Again, duh."

"I know that something happened with your parents. And that you're one thousand times better than them."

Even the firm grip he has on her hand doesn't make those words feel any better. She shakes her head slightly and says, "I don't want to talk about it. Or me. Weren't we supposed to be talking about you?"

"Yeah," he says, chuckling again, "But pretending my problems don't exist is a nice distraction. I guess my point in all of this was... You can trust me. I hope you decide to, eventually. When you're ready, I mean. I'm not trying to press it or-"

"I get it, Dipper. I'm going to go to bed, okay?"

Curly hair a puffed up mess, scruffy beard, tired eyes, Dipper does not look particularly impressive when he places his other hand on top of her and asks, "Stay?"

She can tell he's about to start stammering again and making a fool of himself; Pacifica reminds herself that she's staying to spare him the embarrassment. She nods. He smiles.

"Thank you. Dream Pacifica never stays."

...

It’s still dark out when she wakes. 

She’s stretched out on the couch, only a few inches from falling off. There’s warmth at her back, a breath stirring at her neck.

Carefully, slowly, Pacifica slides out from under Dipper’s arm and sinks to the floor. For a very long moment, she stares at his sleeping face. A light frown marks his lips, and the pre-dawn light does little to improve the bags under his eyes. His hair is even more out of control than before, springing up in curls and tangles around his forehead. She does not reach out and sweep his hair back into place, though her fingers twitch at her sides. The lights in the living room are off, despite the fact that they’d fallen asleep accidentally, while talking, with them on. Mabel’s door is closed. 

Her heart thuds in her ears. Pacifica toes back to her room, shuts her door, and locks it. 

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to stop by at brettanomycroft.tumblr.com
> 
> I post drabbles and headcanons and would love to chat!


	5. Aching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fall rolls around, with the reminder that not everything you want left behind stays put.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It lives! Thank you all so much for your amazing comments, constant support, encouragement, and patience. With the start of the school year, I can't promise more than one update a month, but I will always try to make sure it's quality.
> 
> Chapter specific warnings for: Emotional abuse, childhood trauma, underage drinking, mentions of illegal drug usage, swearing.
> 
> Ha ha ha ha ha, enjoy!

Every ten minutes, the alarm lets loose its angry squawks. After forty minutes spent ignored, it gives up.

Pacifica sleeps.

She sleeps through her first class of the day, as well as her second. Mabel, also delinquent in her attendance, shuffles out of her bedroom a few hours later. Pacifica sleeps through the accidental clatter of pans and the beep of the microwave timer. She sleeps through Mabel's exclamations and Dipper's quiet explanations. 

Whatever is said then remains unsaid to Pacifica. 

She slinks into the bathroom. It’s her reflection in the mirror that awakens her fully: limp hair, dark circles under her eyes, an ugly slump to her shoulders. Glancing at the time on her phone, she calls her final class of the day a wash, turns off the shower’s warming water, and trudges back to her bedroom.

…

Studying proves useless, even with the stats exam looming over her. Pacifica toddles around her room. Papers are shifted, the bed made and remade, her closet organized by color, then style, then symmetry. Her phone pings a few times throughout the course of the afternoon, but like her alarm, they remain ignored. 

Around 6 in the evening, she boots up her laptop to check email and Facebook. Veronica, one of the other first year girls in Delta, has tagged her in a few pictures from the party a week ago. In one, Pacifica poses with a group of Deltas, all wide smiles, all crossing arms over the other to create a chain of triangles with their thumbs and forefingers. In the other, she’s tipping back a shot (she quickly untags herself from that one, and makes a mental note to ask Veronica _not_ to post pictures like that in the future). She’s only fuzzily in the last one, even though Veronica had still tagged her. In the foreground, Veronica and a group pose and smile and laugh. But in the background, Pacifica and Dipper lean into one another, knees touching, heads scarcely inches apart. He stares at her, she smiles back. A heat erupts in her gut. Pacifica slams her laptop shut and stands up from her desk.

The rest of the dorm is empty, as is her side of the refrigerator, as is her stomach. She pours herself a glass of water and looks over to the couch. 

“I’m so screwed,” she mutters to herself.

Thunder reverberates through the unseen spaces of the universe, and like an unwelcome burst of divine intervention, Mabel sweeps into the dorm. 

“Hey Mabel,” Pacifica says, hoping Mabel didn’t notice the way she’d jumped when the door flew open.

“Good Morning, Pacifica,” Mabel says. She dumps her purse on one of the kitchen chairs and glances at her watch - plastic, vintage, Ducktective.

“I was starting to think you’d be asleep all day,” she continues, “You must have been up late last night, huh?”

Mabel waggles her eyebrows, and a grin that Pacifica’s learned to be wary of crosses her face. 

“Yeah,” Pacifica says, “I fell asleep studying last night, must have been around 2:30 or so.”

She starts to slowly back towards her room. The expression on Mabel’s face only widens, only gets brighter. Pacifica is certain she knows what’s coming, and if she could just- get- to her room…

“And my brother just so happened to fall asleep next to you, huh?”

Too late. Pacifica scrubs a hand over her face and sets on her sweetest smile. A moment later though, her voice betrays her.

“Ha ha, it wasn’t like that. He said he’d been having terrible dreams, and so we hung out while I studied, and just… fell asleep.”

Her words rise in pitch and begin to speed up halfway through; by the end of it, she sounds like she’s just finished running a very nervous marathon. Mabel gives her a long, measured stare, then nods.

“Uh huh, just like I thought. You have a crush on Dipper.”

“What?” Pacifica exclaims, shaking her head as hard as she can. “You have _got_ to be kidding me, Mabel. Are you still drunk from last night? You’re still drunk from last night.”

“Deny all you want, sister, but it’s obvious.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Mabel shoots her a smug smirk. 

“He was upset! Crying! What was I supposed to do, just like, leave him at the door?” Pacifica asks. She runs a hand through her hair and then tosses her head. Above everything, she wishes that she’d bothered to shower and put on makeup, or at least wash her face: it’s hard to act convincing and in control when looking like crap in last night’s pajamas. 

“Well, no,” Mabel says, and she puts a finger to her chin, pensive, “But you didn’t have to stay out with him on the couch all night either. And anyway, I saw the pictures of you on Facebook. If that’s not crush, I don’t know what is.”

With a groan, Pacifica walks to her bedroom door. She pauses before opening it. 

“I do _not_ have a crush on Dipper,” she says, “We argue all of the time and he’s constantly acting like an annoying know-it-all. Besides, he’s practically dating Lillian. No feelings, no way.”

She scurries into her room and shuts the door before Mabel can respond. Through the thin walls, she can hear her roommate chuckle.

…

“I… think I have a crush on Dipper.”

Pacifica winces as soon as the words come out. She most certainly can’t look Mabel in the eye, instead fixing her gaze on the brightly-colored knitting Mabel had piled on her desk. 

“Okay, now tell me something I don’t know,” Mabel says. Setting her knitting needles on her desk, Mabel leans her chair back on two legs and watches her. 

“Sometimes you’re too nosy and perceptive for other people’s good,” Pacifica snaps back. 

Immediately she regrets the words - her eyes widen and she glances to her roommate. A flush starts to work its way up Pacifica’s face.

“I mean, Mabel, I’m so sor-”

Mabel just laughs. With a shrug, she smiles at Pacifica and waves a hand in her direction.

“Yeah, I know that too,” Mabel says, a hint of an apology in her tone, “Don’t worry about it. Come in, sit down, talk to Mabel.”

The door frame _had_ been digging into her shoulder, but it’s still with some hesitance that Pacifica peels herself away from it and settles on the very edge of Mabel’s bed. Most of the bed is covered in stuffed animals and sweaters, with only a narrow strip of blanket showing on the left side, presumably where Mabel slept. Woe be unto whoever first spent the night with the girl.

Picking at the hem of her shirt, Pacifica once again struggles to make eye contact with Mabel. Three hours or so had passed since Mabel had first come home and uttered the words, and for three hours Pacifica had agonized over the veracity of it. Each time Pacifica had settled on the fact that no, she definitely did _not_ like Dipper Pines, she felt a flash of the heat from where her head had rested on his chest the night before, remembered the rocking of his shoulders each time she made him laugh.

“I…” Pacifica falters.

“I don’t really want to like Dipper, you know?” she starts, “Like, I mean what I said - he’s a know-it-all and I can’t not argue with him.”

Mabel nods. She turns around in her seat to face Pacifica and leans her chin on the back of the chair, listening. It’s all the encouragement Pacifica needs.

“It doesn’t even make sense and it’s just a bad idea for me to like him. For one thing, he’s your brother. But I just… I mean…”

Inhaling harshly through her nose, Pacifica chews at her bottom lip. The rush of warmth and nerves swirling below her chest doesn’t make any sort of logical sense, nor does the way her heart starts pounding just at the thought of how his lips look when he draws in close to her.

“He makes me laugh,” she finally says, “And even though he’s an idiot who says the wrong thing all of the time, it’s still like… I dunno. Kind of like he knows me.”

“Mhm, sounds like a crush all right.”

Straightening, Mabel nods again and claps her hands together. While a smile still graces her face, her expression is determined, serious even. 

“So now,” she says, “We just have to figure out what you’re going to do about it!”

Pacifica rears back, her movement disturbing some of the stuffed animals behind her. More than one plops off of the bed but Mabel, staring intently at Pacifica, ignores it.

“Do about it?” Pacifica asks, voice rising, “Mabel, I’m not going to ‘do’ anything about it.”

“Whaaaat?” Mabel says. Her brows furrow and she shoots Pacifica a dubious look.

“Yeah, no, not happening,” Pacifica reiterates, “I’ve come to terms with it and now I can move on.”

“But that’s,” Mabel sputters, “But that’s ridiculous! You like Dipper, you’ve gotta act on it! It’s _looooove_!”

Pacifica’s heart hasn’t stopped pounding, but still she shakes her head. 

“But why, Pacifica? Are you secretly super shy? Worried about how he’s going to react? Please, he’s Dipper, and you’re Pacifica! What did you do before with guys you used to like?”

The question makes her stomach lurch. Still, Pacifica nails the disdain when she says, “Usually sleep with them until they inevitably turned out to be after my parents’ money.”

Like a flower cut from the stem, Mabel wilts under her words, the glint in her eye flickering out.

“Yikes,” she says, shooting Pacifica a sympathetic look. 

“Private boarding school,” Pacifica says. Her shoulders rise and fall; she ignores the tightness in her chest.

“But you know Dipper’s not like that. He doesn’t care about that stuff.”

“Great, but I’m still not going to do anything. Besides…” Pacifica looks down to her lap, the brief spark of resistance beginning to dim, “He and Lillian are practically a thing. Even if they stopped being a thing, it would still be a big no-no at the house. Everyone talks about everyone else, and the last thing I need is to make more gossip fodder by going after my big’s love interest. I can’t date my sister’s kind of boyfriend.”

Mabel wrinkles her nose. 

“Eh, yeah, I get your point I guess. That would be like… like me trying to date who Dipper’s dating.”

With a jolt, Mabel’s eyes go wide. An eager grin splits her face. Pacifica suddenly feels like the disk of a yoyo, jerking up and dropping down with each shift in Mabel’s expression. It makes her vaguely dizzy, unable to keep up.

“Pacifica,” Mabel breathes, “Should I try to seduce Lillian?!?”

“What? Mabel, no!”

"But imagine if it worked. I'd be dating your sister, and you'd be dating my brother, who previously dated each other! Is that like… Eskimo quadruplets?”

Rising from her chair, Mabel bounces past Pacifica, headed towards her own bathroom.

“Eh, whatever it is, we’ll iron out the details later,” Mabel says, “Hold on, let me get my lipstick!”

More plush creatures hit the ground as Pacifica jumps up from the bed. 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mabel," she says as she follows her roommate to the bathroom, "That is _not_ what I meant."

Already leaning against the counter, Mabel has her lipstick tube poised like a sword. Pacifica catches a glimpse of her own horrified expression in the mirror right before Mabel's hand drops. Laughing, Mabel caps her lipstick and looks at Pacifica's reflection.

"Relax," she says, "I was joking. I'd never do something like that. Not unless you asked me, at least." 

Turning, Mabel shoots Pacifica a small smile. Of every mood and expression she's seen dance across her roommate's ever-changing face, this one appears to be a first: bittersweet, then grim.

"And I get it," Mabel continues, "You're in a tricky situation, and as entertaining as love triangles are in the movies, word is they're not nearly as fun in real life. Besides..."

Mabel hesitates. Presses her lips together. Looks down at the lipstick still clutched in her left hand.

"I love my brother, but if last night was any indication, he's still not... Not..."

Shock and regret ripple across Pacifica's skin as she connects the dots. Mabel's gaze narrows not on her makeup but some inches up, at a scar hidden by the sleeve of her sweater. Even though Pacifica can't see it, the image of the single eye burns through her thoughts.

"Maybe it's better," Mabel finally finishes, "If you just let it drop, like you said."

"Yeah."

...

Most of that weekend is spent at the Delta house. 

There's a party at the house on Saturday. Scott shows up early and lifts her up onto the kitchen counter after they take their first shot; by the time the party really gets rolling, he's leaning between her legs with his face very close to hers. It's not long after that Pacifica lets him gently tug the off of the counter and into a corner in the living room where she kisses him, quite hard. Lillian throws together a nest of blankets and sweaters-turned-pillows, and it's there on the floor that Pacifica, content but dizzy, passes out at the end of the night.

Lillian wakes her up the next morning requesting a partner for coffee and lounging on the lawn and Pacifica - a sucker for the sun, even in the cooling climes - finds herself in one of Lillian's extra sweaters and a pair of old running shorts not long after.

"So Scotty," Lillian says fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes after they'd secured two long lawn chairs. The others were quickly being filled by some of the other girls - many sporting coffee, a few knocking back Bloody Marys.

Pacifica's head lolls in the chair until she can get a better view of her big. Clear blue eyes peak out over Lillian's sunglasses. Once again Pacifica can't help but question which supernatural being Lillian pledged her soul to in order to look so flawless and composed at any hour of day. Lillian had been stumbling down the hall just as much as Pacifica had last night, yet only one of them looked and felt like they'd been hit by a bus.

"Mmmm, Scotty?" Pacifica hums.

Flipping onto her side, Lillian props her chin in one hand and raises an eyebrow. 

"You're really gonna do me like that, Paz?" she asks.

They stare at each other. Lillian's brow furrows and her lips purse, displeased. Narrowing her eyes, Pacifica glares back.

Lillian breaks first, with a snort. Moments later, Pacifica follows in a cascade of giggles. Both girls laugh so hard the chairs shake, and some of the other sisters glance at them over sunglasses and magazines. A minute or so later their laughter tapers off in heaves and gasps. 

"But seriously," Pacifica says, still working to suck in air past her chuckles, "There's nothing going on with me and Scotty."

"Sure didn't look like nothing last night," Lillian deadpans. Her smile sharpens to a grin, devious.

Pacifica feels the blush across her cheeks. Last night had been the first time she'd left more than a chaste kiss on Scott's lips: in fact, their pursuit of one another had been as energetic as it was mutual. Still, she'd been perfectly content to end the night with a kiss, a hug, and a promise of dinner, soon, before hauling herself to Lillian's room. 

"Yeah..." she hedges, "But I think it's just casual, you know? Scott seems like he's got plenty of options, and if, you know, sometimes it's me, then... Good for me."

Because the truth is, Pacifica hadn't fallen asleep last night with Scott's face burned into her retinas, nor was it his hands that left their pressure on her knees weeks later.   
"Well, I dunno," Lillian says, "In the year and a half or so I've known the kid, I've never seen him so attentive. He's a good guy, and pretty much everyone likes him. You're bringing him to Formal next weekend, right?"

A brisk wind charges its way through them, and Pacifica reassures herself that her shiver is not one of shock or concern. Fall Formal - she'd been so wrapped up in helping _organize_ the thing, and then so busy getting ready for midterms, that she'd completely forgotten that she needed a date to her house's event. 

"Uh-" she starts. 

Pacifica glances to each side, as if some solution would magnanimously fall from the sky at that very moment. All she sees, to her left and right, are her fellow sisters. There's a lie on her tongue as her eyes slide back to Lillian - a date, an associate of one of her parents, who would undoubtedly cancel at the last minute - but it vanishes when she sees the knowing smile on her Big's face.

"I forgot to ask," Pacifica says, "And I'm sure he's got a date already."

"Not that I know of. Text him! I bet he's been waiting on you to do it."

Under Lillian's watchful eye she pulls out her phone and taps out a quick message. It's no elaborate, heartfelt proposal, but it's last minute and it will have to do. Besides, it's Scott. Slipping her phone back into her pocket, Pacifica shoots Lillian her own devious glance.

"Okay, done. But you know I've gotta ask - who are you bringing?"

The answer should be obvious. It is, really, though Pacifica hopes just this once that Lillian has stuck to the unwritten rule of only bringing fellow Greeks to these formal, more exclusive events. 

Lillian doesn't answer immediately. Pacifica's stomach sinks. The question hovers in the air, waiting, stretching thinner with each passing moment.

"Well," Lillian starts. She breaks off. Lillian's brows dip, her face scrunching in consternation. 

"Well, I invited Dipper."

And it's not like the world comes to a screeching halt with those for words. No, much more akin to the endless drifting of the earth through space: hurtling and likely on fire. The motion becomes so constant that one ceases to notice it.

The requisite smile frames Pacifica's lips.

"Not going Greek, huh?" she asks, willing every ounce of enthusiasm she can, "A bold move. Did he say yes?"

Each nerve along her tongue wants to be happy for Lillian, knows this is better, for everyone. But her hands haven't gotten the memo: they clench around the fabric of her sweatpants, saying everything her words won't. 

Fortunately for Pacifica, Lillian seems subsumed by some other thought. Her eyes don't meet Pacifica's, but stray to the ground, and she bites her bottom lip instead of returning Pacifica's smile.

"Yeah," Lillian says, "He said yes. Didn't seem... Thrilled, at first, and he reminded me that he might not be exactly... How'd he say it? 'Cut out for the intricacies of Greek life'... But he said yes. It's just..."

Her words drop off. All of the vibrancy, which seemed hover around her like a radiant cloud, dissipates. Eyes still absorbed with some small detail in the grass, Lillian absently nibbles at a thumbnail. The gesture summons a sour taste in Pacifica's stomach, which rapidly rises to her mouth.

"It's just that... Well, I can't really explain it. He's been fine, I guess, like, perfectly normal for the most part and funny and goofy and all of that. But sometimes I'll text him or call him to come do something and he's like... Already totally out of it drunk."

Casting all of her own feelings aside, Pacifica registers the look on her Big's face, and it's not one she likes. Lillian's face begins to scrunch up, a weak smile, a burgeoning expression of self-doubt.

"Like, I don't know why it's been bugging me so much, you know, all of the guys do it. It's college, and he's a freshman, that's how you're supposed to spend it! I know I'm like, overreacting, and Dipper is great so I shouldn't... But, okay, so, last night, I call him at like... Seven? To come out to the party, and you know me Paz, it's not like it's a big deal to me if he can't make it, but he and his roommate had been day drinking apparently, and so he couldn't make it out and..."

She lowers her head and presses a hand to her cheek; her face gets lost in the ebb and flow of red ringlets.

"It's dumb," Lillian continues, "To be all hung up over some guy, and a freshman at that. And it's not like we're dating, he didn't do anything wrong, I'm just... Being ridiculous I guess."

With a sigh, Lillian shakes her head. She smiles again, even less convincing than before. 

Pacifica's tongue feels thick, unwieldy in her mouth, like it knows it's supposed to move; her jaw aches with the premonition of articulation but still, nothing comes out. She musters up her best sympathetic face, but it must come out all wrong - Lillian laughs.

"It must be hard to be so perfect, Pacifica," Lillian teases, "To never have to worry about the trivial goings-ons of the mortals."

It's not meant to, but it stings. Stings because Pacifica knows it is a joke, knows that Lillian, of all people, knows she's not like that, not really. But just like Dipper a few nights before, Pacifica finds the words of comfort Lillian needs just out of reach: a message written in a language she can read, but cannot pronounce. 

"Well..." Pacifica starts, "He _is_ an idiot."

She stumbles into familiar territory. The air in her lungs is easier to breathe.

"And he'd be an even bigger idiot to not hang out with you. I'm sure he'll pull through for Formal. Mabel... And Me. We'll make sure of it."

Lillian takes her hand and squeezes it. How it is physically possible to feel so warm and so cold at the same time, Pacifica cannot say.

...

_You. Me. Formal?_

_Obviously._

...

She passes her statistics exam, but begins to understand the meaning of 'by the skin of your teeth'. Promising that, in the future, she wouldn't let anything else get in the way of her schoolwork, Pacifica rushes to the Delta house to start helping with the decorating. The week leading up to the Saturday night Formal was an event in and of itself: hosting dinners with other houses, coordinating a charity fundraiser on campus, several parties, and a family lunch.

As a member of the Social Committee, Pacifica's got the schedule down by heart, knows how the week will ramp up, what they need to prepare for. So there's no excuse for how utterly blindsided she is when Indra, a stack full of RSVP cards in hand, shouts from the other side of the living room-

"Pacifica! We just got got a response back from your parents, add them to the guest list!"

Years of practice keep her from dropping the roll of crêpe paper streamers, or wobbling off the top of the eight foot ladder where she's currently balancing. At such a height she can only hope nobody notices how she pales.

"Wow, that's so unexpected!" she calls back, pushing every ounce of enthusiasm out of her rapidly tightening throat, "I didn't think they were going to have time to make it - they've been travelling, and all." 

"I'll be sure to put you and your parents with Lillian's family," Indra says, already scrawling names onto one of the seating charts they'd been working on.

"Great," Pacifica says, "What do you think of the streamers over here? Needs more?"

"Nah, that looks perfect! It'll be super cute once the balloon clusters get in."

With shaking hands, Pacifica eases down the ladder. Each lifted foot feels like lead; she's certain she'll die, poisoned, before she reaches the RSVPs Indra left on the table. 

It only takes a moment to flip to the card from her parents. 'Preston and Priscilla Northwest' handwritten in stylish print. It's a mystery who could have written in - her mother, perhaps her father's PA, or even one of the butlers. Pacifica hasn't seen any more of her family than her father's tightly curled signature (stamped, in most cases) since the summer before her senior year of high school. They hadn't attended her graduation, and she'd spent a month interning at one of the Northwest Real Estate offices in Portland before coming to school, weeks in advance.

She won't puke. Not there, not in the elegantly festooned living room, not in front of the ten or so girls - "sisters" - busying themselves with arranging furniture and making lists. She won't cry, either, not even after she rushes back to her dorm, to the mock sanctity of her thin-walled room. Pacifica sets the RSVP back down on the table, fixes a smile - tight, but believable - on her face, and turns back to her work.

...

_What the fuck are you trying to pull?_

It's the first text Pacifica's sent her father's PA in a very long time. Her heart leapfrogs in her chest as the woman, who no doubt lives with her phone attached to her hand, takes an agonizing ten minutes to respond.

_The dress they picked for you should have arrived today. Be sure you're in it on Friday._

She'd picked up the package on her way up to her room, but left it unopened. It stares accusingly at her: chic but simple white box, tied with a tangerine colored ribbon. Instinct screams at her to deposit the box down the trash chute at the end of the floor's hall, or better yet, find a place to burn it. Instead, Pacifica opens it.

First come the gloves, fuchsia. A black shawl comes after. Pacifica pulls the tissue paper away and rears back. She should have just burned the whole box.

The pink gown is a near replica of the one from six years ago. Sure, it's been sized to fit her now, trimmed down to look more sleek, more in with the season's style, though not by much. She hadn't worn anything so formal since that night, and no doubt the dress was over-the-top even for a sorority event. 

But that's not the point. Pacifica knows a threat when she sees one. She knows putting that thing on, even once, would be as good as draping a white flag across her shoulders and walking herself to the guillotine. 

She shivers and squeezes her eyes shut, as if that would keep the surge of images from darting through her brain. Ringing bells, tormented taxidermy, mud pummelled into white carpet. A night spent locked in her own room, followed by years locked into her own isolation. As if her whole universe began and ended with a dress.

With a sob, Pacifica tosses the box back onto the bed. It can't stay in her room, not for another second, but she doesn't want to look at it, let alone touch it, again. Her stomach clenches. Drawing sharp breaths in through her nose, Pacifica swallows back the gagging that has started to tug at her throat. 

There's only one thing to be done. Flinching, she picks the box back up. Pacifica holds it with the very tips of her fingers, loosely, like she's removing something dead. The walk to the trash chute is excruciating, the immediate shoving of the thing down it not nearly as cathartic as she'd hoped. Even walking back to the room empty handed, she feels like it's following her, sentient and ready to tangle around her ankles.

"You okay?"

A split second later Pacifica registers that it's Mabel, but as on edge as she is, she still startles. Mabel's sitting at the kitchen table, and from the state of her half-eaten sandwich and hot glue gun, it looks like she's been there for a while. 

"Oh, yeah, sorry, I walked right past you, didn't I?" Pacifica says. Her voice sounds strained, even to her.

"Yeah, I called your name and everything but you just booked it."

Mabel props her chin in a hand and shoots Pacifica a look of concern. The expression is becoming all too common, and the lines that form in her bent brow are far from flattering. 

"Sorry, yeah, I found a, uh, dead cockroach in that box when I was moving some things in my closet," Pacifica says, and it's not that hard to summon the disgust in her voice, "I was so grossed out I didn't even notice you talking to me. These dorms are so old and dirty."

“True that, sister,” Mabel says, nose wrinkling in revulsion, “And I used to think staying with Grunkle Stan in the Shack was bad. I’m pretty sure I saw a spider the size of a golf ball in my shower last week. I couldn’t tell because it disappeared in the crack above the showerhead before I could get a good luck. Blech.”

There share a few seconds of sympathetic squirming and gagging noises before settling back down. Mabel is just picking up her hot glue gun, and Pacifica turning to go back to her room, when Mabel pipes up.

“Duh, silly me, I almost forgot what I was trying to tell you before. Ryan invited me out to a house party tonight, and I was going to cash in on that pinky promise from last week! I know it’s a Wednesday and all, and you’ve got Delta stuff or whatever, but-”

“I’m in,” Pacifica says immediately, “I could use a drink or five.”

…

A dented Volkswagen putters up to the front of the dorm a little over an hour later. Lanky and blond, Ryan gives Pacifica an easy wave as she tentatively slides into the back seat. Mabel throws an enthusiastic hug around Ryan’s neck, evoking a low laugh from the other girl. 

“Thanks for inviting us, Ryan,” Mabel says once she’s settled back into her seat, “Pacifica and I were just talking about how we’ve been dying to get out of the dorms.”

“Sure thing, Bug,” Ryan says, “I remember the pain of dorm life - I’m glad to be out of that prison.”

As she pulls back onto the narrow campus street, Ryan glances back at Pacifica through the rearview mirror. 

“I’m Ryan, it’s good to meet you. Mabel’s been talking nonstop about dragging you out to a _real_ party.”

Pacifica shifts a little in the seat, and does her best to keep her face pleasantly neutral. 

“A real party?” she asks, “As opposed to…?”

There’s a shrug. 

“Well, those frat benders can get wild, sure, but there’s more to college life than Natty Light and douchey bros. The girl who came up with that Google Books misprint collection in the library - you know the one, Bug - she’s hosting tonight. She’s got some friends who biked down from Seattle, and you know those kids know how to kick it. I think you’ll find the whole thing scintillating, Pacifica.”

Pacifica’s raised eyebrow must send the wrong message; a second later, Ryan continues with- 

“You know, like interesting.”

“Oh, I know what scintillating means,” Pacifica says. She smiles to cut off the _’Do you?’_ that tries to bubble through her clenched teeth.

Ryan doesn’t look convinced, but before either of them can press the issue, Mabel leaps in, chattering about some project in the design class the two share. Content to sit silent in the back, Pacifica watches as the sun sets through the thick branches of passing trees - they’re leaving the clustered vicinity of campus, heading further out into town. As hard as she tries to follow the route they’re taking and get a feel for where this party is, Pacifica hasn’t spent much time outside of the few square miles right around campus. By the time Ryan parks in front of a small house with an overgrown lawn, all Pacifica knows is that she’s fifteen minutes further from her bed than she was before. 

Mabel and Pacifica follow Ryan down a path trodden through the grass, around the side of the house and to a drooping chain-link fence. Although the sun has just gone down, the backyard is already bustling with twenty-somethings holding mason jars and beer cans. Someone is tending to a few small flames in a fire pit, while others gather around a cooler. Ryan leads them there, digs around in the ice, and hands them both a beer before exchanging hugs and fist bumps with those nearby.

As it turns out, Mabel knows a number of the people at the party, too, and it doesn't take more than a few minutes for her to flit off to a boy with pink hair and a massive black beard and start nodding over something on his phone. Cupping her beer in her hands, Pacifica takes small sips and eyes the people around her. It's nothing at all like her first frat party, where girls had rushed her in the doorway with hugs and near-shrieked hellos. Of course there, in that circle of her peers, there had been no question as to who she was, or what she was doing at that party.

"So, who are you?" Pacifica is asked nearly twenty minutes glasses

The first person to approach her is short, stubby, with black hair shaved at the sides and a purple flannel shirt that's seen better days. He peers up at her through black rimmed glasses, like he can't quite believe what he's seeing.

"Pacifica," she says, holding out a hand. 

The boy responds with a lax fist-bump and the a small smile.

"Eli Newton," he says, and he nods along to his name.

There's a clear and uncomfortable lull as Eli continues to nod - bouncing along, Pacifica realizes, to the faint funk music coming from inside the house. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, when he looks back up at her and goes-

"You wouldn't happen to be Pacifica Northwest, yeah?"

She likes that invocation of her full name like she likes the glance Ryan had sent her from the front seat, like she likes the dress pooled at the bottom of the trash. Nonetheless, Pacifica nods.

"Thought so," Eli says, "I have a cousin who lived near Gravity Falls for a few years after high school. Bit of a debutante - she used to tell me about that yearly party your family used to throw. Can't forget a name like Pacifica after all of _that_ talk."

"Ha ha, yeah, it _is_ unusual," she says, forcing a smile. Eli seems nice enough, but she's so far beyond her comfort zone that his chit chat is doing little to calm her.

"Do you get asked for directions a lot?"

"What?"

"With your name. Northwest."

"Oh. Yeah, uh, no, not really. Smart phones kind of ruined that joke," she says, "But, uh, my Big calls me Southeast a lot."

They both laugh. Both sound nervous, a little off-center. The laughter trails back into silence. Eli starts to dig around for something in his pocket.

"You smoke?" he asks, pulling a plastic baggie out. It's filled with rolling papers and some rather recognizable foliage.

"No, no thank you, not since high school."

It's apparent even to her that she sounds nervous - it's true, it hasn't been since high school, and the early years at that - but Eli just shrugs and pockets the bag.

"Your loss," he says, "Anyway, they've got me on music tonight, so I need to go back in and get this thing cranked up. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Pacifica's faint thanks is genuine, if not surprised. Eli's lips crinkle into a slight smile, and he nods again. He's about to turn towards the house when he pauses. His eyes scan her from head to toe.

"Pacifica," he says, "I know you're chill and all, but just watch out for some of the kids around here. The Crusts Krissy invited down from Seattle are judgemental dicks, and they'll give you shit as soon as they figure out who you are."

Eli makes a loose gesture towards her sweater - oversized, sporting Delta's letters, since Mabel had said 'casual' was the way to go - and then more vaguely towards her face.

"All sharks care about is blood in the water," he continues, "Doesn't matter whose it is."

Before she can reply Eli snags another beer from the cooler and, with a wave, disappears inside.

...

An hour and a few gin and gingers later (found after an exploratory expedition to the dingy, soda splattered kitchen), Pacifica finds herself wishing she'd listened to Eli or, at the very least, smoked some of his weed. She doesn't mean to get cornered in a conversation on her way out of the kitchen, but her ears prick up at 'tax law' and before she knows it, one of the two people she'd started talking to is jabbing a finger into her chest.

"Look," the girl - unkempt blonde dreads, vest over cutoffs - snarls, "Just because your mommy and daddy spent a fraction of that money putting you through college doesn't mean that-"

"That's not what I'm saying!" Pacifica exclaims, throwing her hands up, "I'm _agreeing_ that the way we tax the rich is ridiculous-"

The boy jumps in next, cycling shorts and a tattoo of a fish head, with an emphatic, "The unchecked wealth your family generates is leading to the degradation of labor and the environment, you can't just deny that!"

"I'm _not_ , but if you'd just listen, maybe," Pacifica huffs. She tugs at her hair and takes a long swig of her drink. The pop of gin hits her hard - distracted as she'd been by the two party goers, Pacifica hadn't paid much attention to her pours. These are, without a doubt, the 'Crusts' Eli had been referring to.

"Look, bitch," the girl says, "I don't know how you ended up here, or why, but I don't think you fully grasp how tyrannical the corporate system really is-"

"I'm studying _corporate law_ ," Pacifica wails.

"-But your regressive, capitalistic monarchy isn't going to last long, and when it finally crumbles-"

Without a word, Pacifica chugs her drink, slams her cup on the counter next to her, and spins on her heel. She stalks out of the kitchen, ignoring the heckling calls that follow her. As she passes the counter, Pacifica snatches the bottle of gin sitting there and carries it out to the backyard. She does one sweep for Mabel and takes a long pull from the mouth of the bottle. Some guy leaning on the wall outside of the door glares at her; the words "Fucking frat" putter behind her as she steps down from the rickety wood porch into the back yard.

It takes ten minutes and a quarter of the bottle of juniper swill for Pacifica to track down Mabel. Her roommate had, at some point, migrated to the front porch, and perches atop Ryan's knees as they balance in a busted plastic lawn chair. A few other people chat quietly, and a girl sits on the stairs up to the door, strumming at a guitar. The scent of cigarettes and scotch and something headier expands until it fills the entire porch, muzzy. She sidles up to the side of the chair and squats down to be eye-level with her roommate. Planting the gin bottle firmly on the ground, Pacifica's better able to keep from tipping over, though not by much.

"Mabel," she hisses, tapping her on the shoulder.

"Hey Paz!" Mabel exclaims. 

Mabel throws her arms up in delight, evoking a yelp from Ryan and a creak from the chair. With flushed cheeks, Mabel grins at Pacifica, and it’s impossible to tell which one of them is swaying more.

“I hate to be a total buzzkill,” Pacifica says, voice low, “But I think I really need to go.”

The smile drops off of Mabel’s face, replaced by an exaggerated pout.

“Go? Like go home? And leave the party?”

“Yeah… I know it’s a pain, but I... “ she hesitates. By now, a few people on the porch have noticed the abrupt end to Mabel’s exuberance, and look over at them curiously. Ryan leans forward, setting her chin on Mabel’s shoulder.

“I don’t really know if this is my scene,” Pacifica finishes.   
Looking over at Ryan, she puts on her best desperate face.

“Do you think you could take me and Mabel back home?” Pacifica asks.

“But the party’s still kicking!” Mabel sighs, waving a hand towards the house and, ostensibly, the music coming from inside. “We can’t leave yet! Come on, stick around, it’ll be fun!”

Ryan nods along, ducking to avoid getting smacked by Mabel’s flailing arms. 

“I’m not good to drive anyway, but it’s like…” Ryan pauses, lifting her eyes to think, “Like a thirty, maybe forty minute walk back to campus.”

“You can make that!” Mabel says, “You’re not even in heels tonight!”

Below the slosh of gin, an uneasy feeling wells up in her gut. Pacifica understands what Mabel and Ryan are saying, she just doesn’t get it. 

“Alone?” Pacifica asks, “It’s almost midnight, and I barely know where I am. Can’t you just come back with me Mabel? We could take the bus or something.”

Begging leaves a strange taste in her mouth, but Pacifica finds she doesn’t care - the longer she thinks about it, the more she wants to _go_. 

“Pacificaaaaaa,” Mabel groans, “I want to stay and keep having fun, and Ryan can’t drive anyway. Let’s hang out for another hour or two, and then see how we feel!”

Pacifica unfolds from her crouch and stands, bottle of gin still in hand. She’s stares down at Mabel, hard, glare being met with easy smile. 

“I need to go,” Pacifica says, “I’ll see you later, Mabel.”

Stomping down the porch stairs, Pacifica gulps down another mouthful of gin. With all of the dignity she can muster in her more-than-buzzed state, she fumbles with the gate, swings it open, and continues stomping down the sidewalk to the curb. There, behind the shelter of a stop sign and a truck parked too far up, Pacifica sits down, pulls out her phone, and dials Scott. He doesn’t pick up at first. After a few tries, though, Pacifica is able to relay to him - albeit over the heavy bass of wherever _he_ was out partying - the details of the particular favor she needs from him. They end the call, she texts him the intersection she’s at, and she waits.

The corner she’d picked to sit at is close enough to the house party that, should she need help, it would only be a few feet away. Music - electro-funk, courtesy of Eli Newton - trickles out onto the street, but beyond that, the neighborhood seems perfectly still. Time is killed checking facebook, flipping back and forth between some news articles, and generally trying to get her eyes to stay focused on the screen for more than a few seconds at a time. The blurriness doesn’t keep her from continuing to suck at the gin, though, and by the time a car pulls up to the intersection, Pacifica has almost forgotten her parents, the dress, the party, the whole thing.

“Pacifica?”

She stiffens. Of all things that she had almost forgotten, the person attached to that voice was far from one of them. Looking up from her phone, her brain wobbles manically as she sees Dipper, circling around the hood of a car.

“D-Dipper?” 

Placing one hand on the sidewalk, Pacifica starts to push into a standing position, but the ground won’t quite stay still anymore, tilting as it is, so she stays where she’s planted and watches him approach.

The slim cut of Dipper’s dark v-neck looks nice. Very flattering, despite the holes in his jeans. Pacifica concludes that Mabel must have picked the shirt out - she was always involved in some way when Dipper looked nice. Pacifica wants to smile up at him, but something tells her that would be just an awful idea.

“Uh, hey, yeah, Mabel called me. Do you need a hand?”

He reaches out to her, offering to help her up. She wants to take his hand. She shouldn’t. Whether she’s fully aware of it or not, Pacifica shakes her head, not denying him, but warding off the thought. Nonetheless, Dipper bends down, puts one hand on her arm and another around her waist, and scoops her up to standing.

The world ricochets around her, a sharp tangle of hard noise and soft ground. Pacifica stumbles, Dipper rights her. Although her bottle of gin, still on the sidewalk, is mournfully far, she refuses to pull away from the steadying hands, now both at her waist. He stares down just as she looks up, putting them nose to nose. The alcohol in her system keeps her heartbeat at a slow plod, but despite herself, her breath shortens. 

Dipper’s skin is tacky with sweat, and the stench of cigarettes and beer radiates from his clothes. The dark circles around his eyes haven’t retreated, but, she notes, they look less solemn than a week before. The stubble at his chin has darkened, thickened - he must be growing it out. Her hand twitches on his arm - when had she grabbed him back? - fighting the need to run the pad of her thumb along the deep-set lines of his jaw.

“Were you at a party?” Pacifica asks. Perhaps she is sobering up some, or suffering from sudden awareness, but the slur of her words does not go unnoticed. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Dipper says, starting to steer her towards the car, “Let’s just get your blitzed behind home.” 

The car isn’t familiar - basic blue Corolla, maybe a few years old - but as far as Pacifica was aware, the twins didn’t have a car on campus. 

“Whose car did you take?” she then asks. 

When Dipper tries to quiet her again, Pacifica slams to a halt, balance be damned. They both tip, neither expecting the lurch of thwarted momentum, but Pacifica manages to brace herself in the last second. Dipper jostles against her as he catches himself and boy, are they a mess, but then Pacifica gets a whiff of whatever deodorant or body wash or whatever that he’s wearing and it’s nice, spicy, and she finds that she doesn’t mind much about anything.

“Let’s just go, Pacifica,” he complains, “It’s getting late and I’m exhausted.”

“Dipper, I didn’t call you and am not exactly sure why you showed up, or how you got a car, and you can’t blame me for having very pertinent, time sensitive questions.”

Even as she speaks, Pacifica starts her looping line to the passenger side of the car. Dipper follows a few feet behind, arm outstretched to catch her at any moment. She settles against the car door and starts to tug on the handle. Locked. 

Dipper catches up. Is close, too close even, as he leans over her and reaches for her side. The harsh breath she takes in involuntary. The gap between her, him, and the car door closes. There’s a click. Dipper pulls away, her car door now unlocked.

They slide in at opposite ends, Dipper folding himself into the cramped driver’s seat, Pacifica sinking into the passenger’s. He starts the car, turns to her, and stares expectantly at her, then her seatbelt, then back to her. With a pout, she folds her arms across her chest. Eyebrows raise.

“I was at a houseparty with my roommate when Mabel called. She seemed trashed but worried, said something about how you’d up and left the party. She asked if I’d swing by. The car is Jake’s - my roommate. Satisfied?”

The way Dipper presses a hand to his temple only brightens the smug smile that crosses Pacifica’s lips as she snaps in the seat belt. A moment later, they pull through the intersection, on their way back to the dorms.

“Mabel didn’t want to leave,” she says abruptly. The words weren’t meant to be shared, but Dipper tenses as they hang in the air.

“But you did?” Dipper asks. “Sounds like Mabel alright.”

“Yeah. Yeah, there were these kids - the Crusts, Dipper, can you believe it? - and they were just. Awful. The worst. So I asked Mabel if we could leave, and she said no, to wait, but I couldn’t be around them anymore. You know? I bailed and called Scotty and, ah, shit-”

She feels rather than sees Dipper watching her out of the corner of his eye as she texts Scott. Hopefully he hadn’t gotten too far. The request she’d made for him to pick her up had fled her mind with Dipper’s arrival. A frown flashes across her face; the weakness can’t be repeated. Above all, she has to keep it together, can’t lose her cool around Dipper, if only-

“Scotty? The dark haired kid from Alpha? Are you guys a… thing?”

A lack of sobriety doesn’t keep her from missing the harsh note in his voice. Maybe in the morning Pacifica would make something of it, but for now, she merely giggles.

“Us? What? I mean, we’re going to formal and all, but beyond that…” Pacifica trails off with a shrug. 

“Isn’t taking someone to formal a pretty serious sign?”

The question feels like a loaded gun, but in her ears, each of Pacifica’s answers sound like blanks.

“I mean yeah, whatever, it can be, sure,” she says, “But it doesn’t have to be. I invited Scott super last minute, I hadn’t even thought about a date, and we’re pretty close so…”

Lit only by the flash and fade of passing streetlights, Pacifica doesn’t instantly see the way Dipper’s brows furrow. Instead, she catches the moments in flickers, remnant of stop motion. Dipper offers no reply, silently turning the car onto the campus side road closest to her dorm.

They’re less than thirty seconds from the entrance to her dorm when she splits the silence, asking, “But you and Lillian are pretty serious, yeah?”

He draws back, hands tightening on the steering wheel.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he says, voice level.

The car comes to a stop. Never before has Pacifica so badly wanted to remain sat still in a car; never before has she wished the trip to her dorm was hours, not minutes. But the yearning drifts across her addled mind. She reaches for the door handle.

“Lillian is great,” Pacifica says. It’s not what she’d planned on saying, not what is now screeching through her spine and up to her lips. “You’ve really got something special there, you know.”

Opening the door, Pacifica delicately maneuvers her way to standing. She leans in and smiles at Dipper.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “It’s okay to admit it.”

She slams the car door closed, cutting off Dipper’s sudden, “Pacifica, wh-”

With a belly full of gin and a mouth heavy with unreleased words, Pacifica stumbles upstairs, fumbles into her room, and passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on over and say hi at brettanomycroft.tumblr.com
> 
> I do doodles and drabbles and stuff!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s untenable, the way they’re trying to maintain this friendship by skirting around each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Um, yeah.
> 
> This took forever, and I am sorry. I really should say more, but I am just glad this beast is done.
> 
> Warnings for emotional manipulation and minor mentions of slut-shaming.
> 
> Buckle up, guys.

There’s an old adage.

There’s an old adage - a cliche, really, though most are.

There’s an old adage that sits tight between tongue and teeth and tastes like chewed tin foil and goes a little like this: you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

But gone isn’t quite the right word, not now, not when Pacifica feels as though whatever she had has been ripped out from between her fingers and tossed aside. She clenches and unclenches a fist, imagining she still feels where her mother’s nails twisted into the skin at her wrists. A sinkhole bottoms out in her stomach. Pacifica wraps her arms back around her knees and draws them more closely to her chest. The fraying rug beneath her provides little barrier from the chill of the bathroom linoleum. The vomiting had stopped about an hour ago. She hadn’t moved much since.

“Pacifica!”

“I’m fine,” she groans.

“It doesn’t sound like you’re fine,” Mabel says through the door. It’s impossible to miss the strain that grips her voice.

“Something I ate at the luncheon didn’t sit right with me, and I think I needed to get it all out.” She wills her roommate’s worry to overwhelm Mabel’s otherwise sharp observation; the last thing Pacifica needs is to be caught out in a half-lie. Something _hadn’t_ sat right with her, and she’d scarcely been able to eat because of it, but it wasn’t something she could rid herself of quite as easily as her meal.

From her place on the floor she can see the grime that’s accumulated on the yellowing sealant of the toilet. Flecks of vomit still dot the outside of the toilet bowl, spots she missed when trying to mop up after herself a while ago. A pile of navy hangs out in the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t bother focusing on it for fear of making herself sick again.The shame was not that she hadn’t gotten to the toilet in time, but that the dress she’d worn to the Family Luncheon - newer, blue with a chunky sunflower yellow belt - hadn’t escaped the fleeing contents of her gut. The dress had been the only thing her mother had complimented the entire afternoon. Maybe it was better off covered in bile. Come to think of it, on the floor of a bathroom is where her day had begun, too.

Nerves, not anger, had churned her stomach then, but Pacifica had nonetheless left the pristine bathroom of the luncheon venue with a smile and a fresh coat of lipstick. With fifteen minutes to the start of the meal, most other families had already arrived. Pacifica navigated the clusters of people with the swiftness of a satellite in orbit: cruising by, close enough to be considered part of the atmosphere, distant enough to know she was truly in the void of space. Her heart had blinked in her chest as she scanned the guests circling by the entrance to the ballroom where they were eating. No sign of hostile life, not yet. 

Lillian and her family were seated at the table they had planned to share. It was evident in an instant from which parent Lillian took her looks: her father, trim and tall, dark hair silvering tastefully at the temples, looked more like he ought to be on the red carpet of a movie premiere, rather than attending a luncheon thrown by a handful of college-aged girls. The woman at his side was strikingly familiar, though Pacifica has never met her before. Wild curls sprung up over a chic headscarf cut from the same hand-dyed hemp cloth as her mother’s flowing periwinkle sundress. Her wrists were adorned with silver bangles. They clanked against a trim Bulgari watch as she stood and wrapped Pacifica in a wispy hug. 

Lillian’s mother was the mother of every one of her childhood acquaintances, from the chunky, free-trade handmade necklace, to the aura of nag champa and Chanel, to the massive diamond on her ring finger (they didn’t come that big in conflict-free). Pacifica choked back a dry heave at the sight; she was sure Lilli’s mother was fine, just lovely, but she could already hear what Priscilla Northwest would have to say about her. There were years of backlog when it came to snide comments about her friends’ parents. To avoid it, she’d eventually stopped making friends.

Greetings and questions and every manner of pleasantry were exchanged, proving Lillian’s parents to be each bit as charming as their daughter. Sure, it had been obvious they were new money and were taking all of the predicted paths while figuring out to do with it, but it didn’t matter when they were just so genuine. When the meal began, Pacifica had felt all the more relieved that her parents, opposite in every way to the adults across the table, must have decided not to show up.

Until they did. 

“Pacifica, darling!”

It must be how the heroine in a horror movie felt the moment she realized she was not alone in the basement. Pacifica had no time to react, no time to school her expression into something more accommodating. She turned slowly, with the dread of a killer at her back.

Priscilla Northwest didn't plunge a knife in her, per se, but acrylic talons seemed to pierce through the thin fabric of Pacifica's dress as her mother folded her in a tight grip. Shocked, all Pacifica could do was stare over her mother’s shoulder to meet her father’s gaze. 

His smile was industrial diamond made from ground coal. His smile was the shattering of a car windshield; the air was punched from Pacifica’s chest upon impact. Preston raised an eyebrow, expectant.

“Mother,” Pacifica had intoned. She drew back and forced her eyes to meet Priscilla’s. “I wasn't expecting either of you! What a surprise that you could make it.”

“Well, we did RSVP,” Priscilla said, adding a shrill little laugh to the end of her words.

Every muscle in Pacifica’s face shrieked as she shoved herself into a smile. She ushered her parents to their seats, unable to meet the gazes of Lillian or her family as Pacifica introduced her parents. The standoffish hauteur Pacifica had expected from her parents was alarmingly absent as they shook hands with Lillian’s mother and father. Preston placed a hand on Lillian’s shoulder, and Pacifica’s knees buckled as he smiled down at her and said, “We’ve heard so much about you!”

To Lillian's credit, she’d looked as startled as Pacifica felt. Her fumbled thanks lacked her usual cool ease, and Pacifica took solace in the warmth that patters in her chest as Lillian slipped her a concerned glance. All she could hope was that that Lillian had seen the buckle of her smile and the tightness around her eyes and had known.

There’s money, and then there’s whatever Priscilla Northwest had. She was as radiant as she was plastic, face smoothed and body perked and hair colored to tasteful vibrance. How old her mother was, Pacifica couldn't honestly remember, but even if she could, few would believe her. There was likely an algorithm, Pacifica had mused as her mother took the seat to her left, for calculating the precise curve of her formulated smile. Were it not for the gag that rose in her throat at her mother’s sudden proximity, Pacifica might have considered Priscilla's face the very expression of the golden ratio. Her eyelashes fluttered in long arcs as she measured out the long event hall.

“So tell me,” Priscilla cooed, “Did you girls have an event coordinator come in and arrange all of… This?”

“Yes ma’am,” Lillian said, smile plastered back on, “All of the girls on the social committee helped organize and decorate for the event. Pacifica must have been on streamer duty for a week!”

There was the obligatory titter of laughter from all parties before Priscilla gave the room another sweep and managed a convincing, “How charming!”

One of the wait staff had come by then to bring the Northwests their starter salads. The two glanced to one another and Preston waved the man away. Like some ancient ritual Pacifica had previously never been privy to, hell opened up with the very gesture.

The apocalypse began not with a bang, but Priscilla Northwest’s dainty sniff when Lillian’s mother asked what she did for a living. Conversation flowed with mock amicability. Priscilla and Preston were good at what they did, always had been, even if all they did was find ways to build themselves up while poking holes in everyone around them. Lilli’s mother had bought a winter home in Santa Cruz; Preston knew, he’d _sold_ that very property to the previous owner for $6.8 million the year before the housing crash. Lilli’s father was looking into creating a scholarship program for rising film students; Priscilla had been invited to attend Sundance as a VIP. The arrival of the main course had been the only miracle in sight: maybe Pacifica would choke on an undercooked tomato and finally get the quick death she’d been praying for all day.

Halfway through the meal, Priscilla had set her fork down (food shuffled around but uneaten) and beamed at Lilli and her parents.

“It’s so nice to see Pacifica has made friends with so many lovely girls in Delta.”

Pacifica swallowed whatever was on her fork without chewing. It didn’t asphyxiate her, as hoped, but it did feel as though it might come back up. A lifetime of forced attendance to events filled with aristocratic pricks had taught Pacifica the tone and tenor of a smackdown disguised as a pleasant exchange. A rattlesnake warns an intruder before it strikes; Priscilla was subtle, yet no different. 

“Oh, I felt the same way when Lilli joined,” Lilli’s mother gushed, “They really do bond like sisters!”

Side-stepping her comment, Priscilla barreled on, voice still casual. “Pacifica was popular back in high school, of course, but mostly with the boys. It must have been her positively _infectious_ personality.”

She couldn’t tell if it was practiced, but Preston and Priscilla let out the same tinkle of condescending laughter at that. There was no way Lilli or her parents would recognize the jab - for all they knew, she had been well-liked in high school - but the ridicule wasn’t at their expense anyway. 

“You over-exaggerate, Mother,” Pacifica says, “I went to an all-girls school.”

Priscilla rolled her eyes and almost managed to sound affectionate when she said, “And that certainly didn’t stop you. Who _was_ that boy who came around every summer…?”

There had been no way to shut down the game they were playing - they were too prepared and had come in swinging. Pacifica had been bracing herself for the consequences of snapping out a sharp ‘I don’t know, you kept me locked in the library every summer’, when Preston let out an exaggerated hum and said, “Oh, you mean the Pines boy? Tenacious, that one.”

The reply Priscilla had planned was cut off by Lilli’s sudden coughing fit. Face red and eyes wide, she’d clearly been in the middle of swallowing something when Preston had mentioned Dipper. Even after catching her breath, her cheeks had stayed a violent red. Lilli didn’t meet Pacifica eyes for the rest of the meal, nor did she say much else. 

“You don’t need to take me back to the dorm,” Pacifica had said an hour later. She’d crossed her arms over her chest and stared both of her parents down as they waited for their driver to come around with the limo.

“We don’t,” Preston said, “But we’re going to.”

“I’d rather not.”

“And it’s rather amusing you think you have a choice, young lady.”

She ducked into the back of the limo and slid to the seat farthest from her parents. It was like she was 15 again, staring obstinately out the window as her parents explained why she was no longer going to have a roommate at school. If she was lucky, they would leave her to brood until the limo got back on campus, but she hadn’t been lucky in a while. 

“God, that was utterly _embarrassing_ , wasn’t it dear?” Preston asked with a sigh.

“Just atrocious, really. You’d think with what we’re paying to keep Pacifica in the thing, they’d put on a better event.” Priscilla’s gaze had narrowed in on Pacifica then, and she scowled, no longer needing to maintain appearances. “You could have done better. The Northwest name is deserving of being in a higher tier organization, even if _you’re_ not.”

“I like being in Delta,” Pacifica said.

“I don’t,” Priscilla retorted, wrinkling her nose, “I think we’ll have to speak with the some of the other sororities about Spring Rush. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind a generous donation for their selection.”

“I’m not leaving Delta and joining some other sorority, mother! And you can’t make that choice for me!”

Preston jumped in, lips pulled taut in displeasure. “Pacifica Elise Northwest, you do not speak to your mother that way. As your parents, we make your decisions, and this decision will be unquestionably clear when your sorority dues for Spring semester need to be paid.” 

“You, you can’t just-!” 

But they could. And they would. She buried her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on some point out the window. Silence reigned for a few minutes, but it wasn’t long until Priscilla started up once more.

“Ugh, Preston, did you _see_ her getup? I don’t care if you’re the best known lawyer in the city, you don’t wear a _muumuu_ out in public.”

There is was, the reaming of Lilli’s mother.

“With all of that money she made from that defense settlement, she should buy herself some taste!” Preston chimed in. 

“And him, _please_. He tries so hard for a _trophy husband_. ‘Scholarship for art students’? I’m sure he’ll end up having a hand in selecting all of the pretty little ‘filmmakers’ that get to go to college.”

She couldn’t break, couldn’t do it, not there, not knowing that they would see. She’d already lashed out enough, already shown her hand, and they were going to try to take Delta from her. Somehow they’d known about Dipper and Lilli, and had known what they were doing in bringing him up and planting that seed of doubt in her best friend. If Pacifica kept her mouth shut, she might avoid them latching on to anything else she’d started caring about.

“So, Pacifica, why haven’t we heard anything about this Scott?”

Her head whipped around, all semblance of calm one word from fracturing.

“No.”

“He seems suitable,” Priscilla continued, “His parents mentioned you at the last charity ball we attended. Were it not for the boy he’s seeing on the side, I might almost approve.”

“We’re not dating, so there’s no ‘on the side’ happening.”

“Shame. I thought sluts _loved_ getting together.”

The limo purred to a stop in front of her door. She scrambled past her parents and flung the door open before the driver could make his way around and open it. Pacifica had paused long enough to shout, “You must know that from experience!” before slamming the door and running into the building.

…

“Pacifica, you’ve been in there a long time.”

She’s not sure how much time had passed between now and Mabel’s last visit, but it had been long enough for the floor to start feeling comfortable.   
“Yeah, I just… think it’s probably better for me to stay close to the toilet.”

“Want me to get you some water?” 

“No thanks, I’ve got a glass in here. Thanks Mabel…”

The doorknob turns as Mabel releases it. With the deadbolt in place her efforts at getting in had been admirable, but useless. Pacifica can hear Mabel shift a little outside of the door.

“Let me know if you need anything, okay? You have your phone in there?”

“Mhmm. I’ll call for you or send you a text if I start thinking I’m dying.”

“Okaaaay…”

A minute passes before Pacifica hears Mabel trot away. There’s no click or slam from Mabel’s bedroom door, so she must have left it open in case Pacifica called for her. Were she not ill to her core, she might appreciate Mabel’s attentiveness - yet another unspoken apology, perhaps. They were getting good at those.

Another jolt of nausea races behind her sinuses. Even though the dry heaving has stopped, Pacifica feels far from well enough to leave the bathroom. Gradually, she settles into a position that allows her to lay down on her side and cradle her head in her arms. At least it doesn’t make her feel worse.

…

 

She doesn't answer her phone the first time it rings. And why should she? It’s 1 am, the tail-end of one of the worst days of her life, and the last thing she wants is to talk to someone - Scotty, one of her sisters, Mabel - whose likely drunkenness will only prove an added weight to her headache. She doesn’t even bother checking her phone to see who it is.

But when her phone rings again she concedes. Flopping over, she grabs the shrieking device and blinks against the screen’s piercing light. _Lilli_. 

“Hey babe, what’s up?” Pacifica says. Unused for hours, her voice comes out more as a croak. 

“Pacifica, is Mabel home?”

She sits up, alarmed at the sob in Lilli’s voice. 

“I don’t know- are you okay? Let me go check.”

“I t-tried calling her but she’s not picking up,” Lilli says, fumbling over her words. The line seems to turn to white noise as Lilli lets loose a volley of deep, gasping breaths. They punctuate Pacifica’s steps as she crosses the dark living room separating her room from Mabel’s. 

“I’m checking now,” she says, knocking on her roommate’s door. “Mabel? Mabel?”

She allows five agonizing seconds of silence before she turns the doorknob. Mabel’s room is unlocked, and her bed empty.

“She’s not in,” Pacifica says, “She must be at a party or out somewhere where she can’t hear her phone. What’s going on, what happened?”

Back in her room, Pacifica shimmies her sleep shirt over her head and pulls on a sweater, all while trying to keep her phone to her ear. Part way through jumping into her boots, Lilli manages to form words again.

“It’s Dipper,” she starts, and Pacifica drops a boot. “I’m at his place and he’s just freaking out, like, we were sleeping and then he, he just wakes up and starts screaming and he won't calm down or tell me what’s wrong and I can’t get ahold of Mabel and he’s still in his room going crazy but I can’t just _leave_ him- I don't know what’s going on-”

Pacifica’s heart restarts and she tugs on her other boot. 

“I'm on my way,” she says, “I'll be there in like ten minutes. Meet me downstairs so I can get in.”

Lilli’s breathy, “Okay,” hitches in her throat, and Pacifica’s stomach feels tight when she hangs up. 

Pacifica grabs her purse and coat and is already back on the phone by the time the door locks behind her. Mabel’s phone rings to voicemail twice, three times, so she gives up and starts her barrage of texts. The whole ritual feels familiar, and Pacifica has a feeling that the exact same thing is happening to Dipper again. 

The cold spurs on her quick pace and worry nips at her heels as she speeds across campus to Dipper’s dorm. Thin clouds cast strange shadows on the sidewalk and trees; she nearly jumps out of her skin when two drunk boys stumble around the corner and let out a warbling whoop at the sight of her. She rolls her eyes and catches her breath and sidesteps them, letting their chatter fade away as she crosses the street.

There’s a small huddle of students smoking a few yards from the dorm's side door. One of them offers their key card to swipe her in, but the door opens at that moment and Lilli’s hazy cloud of red hair pokes out. 

“Hey,” Lilli says shakily as Pacifica slips into the little stairwell entrance. Pacifica wraps her into a hug and Lilli’s arms tighten around her like she’d stop standing if she let go.

“Hey. Mabel didn't pick up, but I'm sure she’ll text back soon. Let’s go.”

Dipper is on the top floor, and Pacifica has never felt so tense going up the four flights of stairs behind Lilli. Lilli slips the key to his room out of her coat pocket and lets them in.

Pacifica’s been to Dipper’s dorm room a handful of times - a few times with Mabel, once with Lilli - and not much is different now. It’s teenage messy, dishes piled in the sink and scattered papers in varying states of crumpled making up most of the decor. His roommate, a kid from Texas named Jake, is out, judging by open door. 

Dipper is nowhere in their common living area, but the little cries and indistinct muttering coming from his darkened bedroom leaves no question as to where he is. 

“I’m going to try talking to him,” Pacifica whispers. Lilli nods, face pale, and gives her hand a quick squeeze. She follows Pacifica to his room, but halts in the doorway for a second before fleeing to the living room.

“Dipper?” She keeps her voice light, and scans the shadows in the room for the one she needs. A whimper worms up from the far side of his bed. Pacifica shuffles in, carefully avoiding the nondescript piles on the floor. 

“Dipper, it’s Pacifica. You’re awake.”

A dark shape appears over the edge of the bed. The dim light from the hallway catches Dipper’s eyes and the barest features of his face. It’s just enough for her to see him blink slowly. 

“Paz?” he rasps.

“That’s a stupid nickname,” she says, “But it’s me, and you’re awake.”

His response stretches out, pulled from the dreamy molasses of his mind. Another blink.

“Dream Pacifica… is always nice to me.”

“Yup, but you’re awake and stuck with mean Pacifica, so suck it up, Pines.” 

She shuffles a few more feet before stubbing her toe on some part of his bed frame. The curse slides from her lips, startling them both. 

“I’m gonna to turn on the light, okay?” 

“There’s a lamp on your side,” he says slowly.

Pacifica’s hand fumbles with the bric-a-brac on Dipper’s nightstand until she finds the switch on the lamp. In an instant, everything is revealed in a soft orange flow. 

It’s hard to tell what in the disarray of his room was preexisting and what has been caused by his sudden night terrors: his pillows have been tossed to the floor and his desk chair upturned; a stack of papers was knocked from his nightstand, the sheets half-torn from the bed. Dipper himself looks as though he’s been picked up by a tornado and set back down miles away. She might laugh at the awkward angle his hair sticks up at, or how confused he still looks, were it not for the unexpected bareness of his shoulders.

He’s shirtless - of course, he, no, _they_ had been asleep - and his pale shoulders shudder as he sucks in a breath. Dark marks pepper his collarbone and the hollow of his neck. Pacifica looks away quickly, but it’s not fast enough to keep the wave of sick heat that builds up from her stomach.

“What happened?” he finally asks.

“I don’t know,” she says, “But I think you had those bad dreams again. Lilli called me saying you woke up and were freaking out.”

Dipper’s groan is muffled. She glances over to see he’s buried his head into his mattress. His fingers tangle through his hair and pull in frustration. After a moment he lifts his head until just his eyes peek out. They’re bloodshot and rimmed in black. 

“Kill me,” he whines, “Just leave me here to die.”

“Kay, bye,” she says, starting to turn. The motion is slower than it should be, body betraying her. Sense reminds her that Lilli is in the next room, but it is her body, and not her sense, that brings to mind the firm line of his chest against her back. It is her sense that remembers how broken he’d looked that night on her couch, ripples of nightmares still pooling on his features the moment he’d looked at her and said-

“Stay.”

Pacifica freezes. From the shifting behind her, Dipper must be standing. She turns. He’s naked to the waist and staring straight at her. There’s no way to control the blush that surges to her face, but she scowls to try and cover it.

“ _Please_ stay, Pacifica.”

There’s genuine need in the furrow of his brow and the set of his lips. When he reaches out to her in supplication, she takes his hand. 

“I shouldn’t,” Pacifica whispers as they sit on his bare mattress, “It’s late.”

Nothing else is said as Dipper looks down at their joined hands. The scar on his wrist is partially obscured by her arm, but it doesn't hide the fresh red streaks from where he must have clawed at the image in his sleep. The sound that gurgles up from him is muck and gravel - ugly and dark.

“Stop that,” she snaps. Using her free hand, she grabs his chin and jerks it up, forcing his gaze from the marks. “It’s over, you’re awake, you’re fine. No harm done, except to maybe your bank account for the coffee you owe me after this.”

It works. Dipper gives a dry chuckle and presses his eyes shut. His hand is clammy in hers. She’d like to let go of his hand and press her thumbs gently to his temples, or soothe the worried lines of his brown with her lips. In some other place, some other him, a different her, Pacifica might have been able to draw him out from his nightmares with more than just her unpleasantness. That she proves to him he is awake by being everything Dream Pacifica is not, crushes her. 

“You were in this one,” he says, “Which is crazy, because you weren't involved with anything that ever happened. You should have been safe from all of that. But in the dream, we were in your mansion, just like before, but _he_ was there too. You grabbed my hand and we just kept running and running down hallway after hallway. Finally we got to a dead end, and when you turned around…” Dipper takes a weak breath and yanks his head from her grip. He stares at the far wall. Tears marr the corner of his eyes. 

Pacifica gives his hand a tight squeeze, then shakes it, tugging him towards her. 

“Just tell me already so you can get over it,” she says. She doesn't flinch, because she doesn't regret the edge in her words, doesn’t regret whatever it will take to pull Dipper out of his fitful funk. Doesn’t regret doing anything she can to make him look less sad. She would even pull him to her, against her chest, hold him until-

“You turned around and it was him instead. _In_ you, _possessing_ you. And there was nothing I could-” he chokes on his words.

“Hey, everything okay?”

Pacifica has dropped Dipper’s hand even before she’s fully turned to face Lilli. For the briefest moment she feels like she’s outside of her own body, looking in on herself and Dipper from where Lilli stands at the door. The scene doesn't look good: the two of them shoulder to shoulder on his bed, hands just untangled, both red in the face. God, she’s in so much trouble, there’s no way Lilli doesn't see right through her.

A yelp punctures the bubbling guilt. The bed rocks violently as Dipper staggers to his feet. All traces of flush are gone, replaced by a stricken paleness as Dipper raises a trembling hand and points at Lilli. 

Lost, Lilli looks from Dipper to Pacifica, as if Pacifica had any clue what’s driven the terror out across Dipper’s features. 

“What are you playing at, D-”

But then she follows the line of Dipper’s finger to see that he’s not pointing at Lilli, not like that. With a groan, she tugs her hands down her face. Maybe, just maybe it’s her who is trapped in the outlandish dream, and she’ll wake up any second.

“It’s your shirt, Lilli,” Pacifica sighs, “And I'm sure if Dipper were capable of using his words, he’d tell you as much.”

Dipper’s hand drops and he nods, looking to the ground instead of either girl. An assortment of sounds makes it past his constricted throat, but none that become coherent.

Bewilderment dominates Lilli’s face as she stares down at the oversized, neon green sorority shirt acquired from some philanthropy event a year or two ago. In bold black, their letters overwhelm most of the front: ΨΔΨ. Pacifica wants to undergo sublimation, drift away from this whole embarrassing mess before she inevitably has to connect the dots for Lilli.

"I... I don't get it," Lilli says, tugging at her shirt and looking back to Dipper, "The... color? The...?" 

Pacifica glares at Dipper; as bad as she feels for him, as understanding of his trauma as she is trying to be, it was never supposed to be her responsibility to explain to Dipper's almost-girlfriend why nighttime exposure to triangles sets him off.

"You haven't said anything about this to her?" Pacifica asks flatly. Dipper shakes her head. Instead of embarrassed, though, his brows furrow and he raises his head, looking guarded. She can tell he's not going to be any help, and she's half-tempted to leave him to dig himself out of this mess. But she knows Dipper is too dazed to explain, and more than that Pacifica knows how impossible it is to try and unknot years of anguish in a few sentences. So she scrambles, for him. 

"It’s the Delta sign…” she starts, trying to work something out, “Back when we were kids, Dipper had a really bad experience with..." and then Pacifica has to stop. Because she can taste the tenor of the words even as they are forming at the back of her tongue, and it tastes like coffee grounds and pine needles, like dust and dirt - something Lilli would never understand. How does one explain Gravity Falls? How could she possibly tell Lilli the truth without her turning and labeling them both insane? Monsters, ghosts, real, live demons that haunt dreams and summon nightmares - those kind of things don't exist outside of that nowhere town. There's no question why Dipper hasn't brought it up to Lilli in the past. How could she? 

_You know what I like about?_ he’d said, _You’re so completely unfazed by it_. And Dipper had trusted her. 

"It's okay if I tell her?" Pacifica continues, knowing that she's going to continue regardless of how Dipper responds. Dipper's startled eyes don't come with words, and she's granted her loophole. 

"Gravity Falls is a logging town, right? Well, when we were like... eleven or twelve, Dipper was in this awful accident up at one of the mills,” Pacifica pauses, giving herself enough time to gather her thoughts. She’s been trained to tell a lie since birth, but it’s harder now that it matters. “I wasn't there, but it was all over the news, and Dipper had mentioned it before... he was exploring the hills on the outskirts of town, and ended up at one of the mills that was closed for the season.”

Glancing at Dipper, she can see the fear draining from his form. It gives her a bit of momentum. She takes a breath. All throughout school, she’d been taught how to present, how to compel with her words. This is no different.

“Well, you know Dipper, he's too curious for his own good, so he starts poking around, and somehow ends up getting caught in one of the saw machines. I don't know if you've ever seen one, Lilli, but over the saw tables, there are all of these warning signs: big, yellow, triangle shaped. There are tons of them, all showing images of what happens if you get caught in the machines. Obviously Dipper managed to get out, but spending a couple of minutes trapped in some old, dangerous machine, staring up at those signs when you think you're going to die..."

"Traumatic," Dipper breathes. 

It's a stupid story. It's an awful lie. Pacifica is lucky her family owns most of the mills in town, lucky her father had mentioned it just that afternoon, lucky that Lilli seems tired and confused and just freaked out enough to believe it for the moment. She nods slowly, still trying to wrap her head around the story.

"So yeah," Pacifica finishes lamely, "Sometimes, at night, Dipper has bad dreams and freaks out, with or without triangle-shaped stuff. But the shirt must have set it off worse once he woke up."

And then she catches her mistake as Lilli's eyes narrow a flicker. 

"Mabel told me," she adds, hoping it sweeps away whatever doubts have risen in her friend's mind, "Sorry, Dipper."

Dipper just nods, looking a little shell shocked at the awkward turn.

Lill straightens, and pulls off her shirt in one smooth motion. It's hardly the first time she's seen Lilli strip - they've gotten ready together for plenty of parties in the past - but somehow Dipper's added presence makes it uncomfortable. Pacifica looks away as Lilli turns her shirt inside out and slips it back on, Delta symbols no longer visible. 

"Better?" she asks softly, staring at Dipper. 

"Yeah," Dipper manages. 

Looking between Dipper and Pacifica, Lilli hesitates. She digs her phone out of the pocket of her sweatpants and stares at the screen. Pacifica doesn't think she's ever seen Lilli look so tired, so worried. 

"I'm going to go," she says, "I don't think it's a good idea for me to stay."

The protest Dipper offers is weak, incomprehensible, unconvincing. It sparks an unnecessary thud in Pacifica's chest; she can't keep herself from comparing his response to the soft need with which he asked her to stay. As she sits in the near-center of the room, still on Dipper's bed, between him and her best friend, Pacifica wonders if he will ask her to stay again. She wonders if she'll say yes.

Lilli opens her mouth to say something, then changes her mind. She affixes her gaze on Pacifica. The expression Lilli foists on her is neutral, impossible to read. Pacifica gets the sense that Lilli is waiting. Whatever she is waiting for, she doesn't give it long.

"Bye," Lilli says a minute later. She leaves the doorway and starts shuffling around in the living room, likely gathering her purse and putting on her coat. Pacifica sits. Dipper stands. Neither move to see Lilli out, or change her path, or explain. The door to the dorm slams shut.

It's just the two of them.

She should say something - should have said something a minute ago, to Lilli, to Dipper, anything. But it's too late for Lilli, and now Dipper is staring at her. His jaw has gone slack and his shoulders cave in. 

“Thank you,” he says, “I thought for a minute that you were going to-”

Pacifica cuts him off. “I understand why you didn’t tell her the truth, but you should have at least told her something. How long have you two been sleeping together? Three, four months now? And this has never come up?”

She hates the words as they come out of her mouth, and she hates the way he recoils in surprise. It’s untenable, the way they’re trying to maintain this friendship by skirting around each other. So she has to be forceful, or they’re going to cross a line. 

“We normally don’t spend the night,” he mutters, and she can’t deny there’s guilt lacing his voice, “Tonight was an accident. A mistake.”

She stands up. His sheets are mostly pooled on the floor, right at her feet. Between him and her is a scattering of textbooks and paper clips, clothing, some food wrappers. The corner of a foil wrapper glints out from one edge of the sheet. For not the first time that night, Pacifica feels sick.

It’s immature, she knows, but she kicks at the sheets with her boot and turns to go.

“You need to talk to Lilli,” she says.

“I want to talk to you.”

“You’re better now, right? Then we’ve got nothing to talk about.”

She has to do it, because Dipper is still shirtless, and Lilli is not doubt starting to see what’s going on, and Pacifica will fall asleep - in his bed, next to him, arms around his waist - if he asks her to stay.

“Do you want to… hang out a bit longer?” Dipper asks. He crosses the room, taking advantage of her hesitation, and makes a grab for her wrist. She dodges his reach and makes it to his bedroom door. He doesn’t say the magic words; the spell doesn’t hold. 

Pacifica doesn't turn to face him when she says, “That would be a mistake.”

…

 _Home safe_

She starts to send Lilli the text, reconsiders, and deletes it. 

Types it back out. Sends it. Doesn’t get a response.

…

It’s somewhere around 3:24 that next day when Pacifica idly considers looking up the world record for staying in one’s room and avoiding all human contact. Her phone has been buzzing most of the day, and after the first hour or so of swiping away texts, she chucks her phone into her dirty laundry basket on the other side of the room and puts all her attention into the reading for her law class. 

She’s not even all that surprised when the pounding comes at her door. No, the emotion that limps up is annoyance, followed by a huff of guilt. Pacifica’s doing a piss-poor job of acting like everything is fine, but it’s not like everyone had to freak out about it. Just because she feels like the scum of the earth doesn’t mean anyone else should be feeling back for her. The years have shown she can take care of herself. Just fine.

“Pacifica!” Scott bellows. As he hammers her door, Mabel joins in, switching between, “Pacifica, open up!” and “Sorry not sorry!”

“Go away, I’m fine!” Pacifica shouts back. She wriggles in her bed until most of her head is covered by pillows. 

“I’m not leaving you alone until after formal, maybe the morning after, when I drop you back off here wearing my clothes!” Scott is still yelling, and when he finishes, Mabel picks up with a series of catcalls and whistles. 

“ _Ohmigod_ , Scotty!” Pacifica shrieks. The past few months - and their last party together - have taught her that he’s only half-joking about her spending the night. After last night, maybe it’s what she needs.

As soon as the thought becomes cogent her brain slams to a stop. Between the rock that wants her and the hard place she shouldn't want, Pacifica has nowhere to go. In light of that, staying in bed remains her best option.

“It’s almost four, formal starts at 7, I _know_ your ass doesn't get ready that fast, so let's get going.”

“I'm not going to formal,” she says. Her words aren't that loud, but Scott's offended gasp lets her know he heard.

“That’s how the terrorists win! Pacifica Willhelmina Northwest, do you want the terrorists to win?”

“Yeah, the terrorists!” Mabel echoes, sounding increasingly excited about everything happening. 

Scott doesn't know her middle name. Scott doesn't know her middle name, or her parents, or anything about ghosts, or demons, or strange birthmarks, or dresses at the bottom of trash chutes. Pacifica knows who she should want.

She doesn't, but she still gets up and opens the door.

…

For spending the past 24 hours as a shambling disaster, Pacifica looks good as she crosses the threshold of the Delta house, and Scott seems determined that she not forget it. He keeps an arm around her waist and a hand at her hip as they meander through the large living room, chatting with the other girls and their dates. Scott’s contact is persistent through their first dances, touch tightening to slide her body to his. The first kiss is dropped a drink later, and lands along the skin between collarbone and neck. 

Between the drinking and the dancing, the multitudes of people filling the floor, it’s not long until the living room gets unbearably house. Pacifica draws him to the adjoining dining room, hoping to cool down and chat with some of the others there. The first time he leaves her side is to get her another drink from the kitchen.

Janelle, in her year, is just complimenting her dress - aubergine, long-sleeved, knee length - when they start hearing the shouts. 

“Look, man, back off and chill out!”

Pacifica’s smile sinks as her heart bobs up to her mouth. She knows the first voice, and no doubt she’ll recognize the returning call.

“I don’t know what fucked up game you’re trying to play, but you need to stop.”

“Game? Get a _grip_! We’re friends, and have been for ages.”

The crowd feels near-choreographed as it parts to let her past. The world slows as she approaches the kitchen, but even though it takes centuries for her to cross the threshold, she still can’t seem to catch her breath. She sees Scott’s lips curl, his mouth move, and the words come a half-second later.

“Like you don’t want mo-”

“Scotty? Dipper? What’s going on?”

It’s only to two of them in the kitchen, though she can feel one hundred stares from every connecting room and hallway. Lilli is nowhere in sight, and Pacifica wonders if that’s why Scott decided to pick this fight, now. 

They shake the scowls off of their faces in an instant, but they can’t seem to go back on the squaring of their shoulders or the puffing of their chests. Their reactions are simultaneous and identical, and it makes Pacifica want to be done with them both. Dipper wrangles a smile first.

“Hey Paz,” he says, giving her a little shrug, “Sorry, Scott and I were discussing the upcoming student council elections, I guess things got a little heated.”

She rolls her eyes and glares at Scott, who, taken aback, is nodding along with Dipper’s story. One hand has been curled into a fist at his side - it relaxes when he realizes what she’s staring at. Hands on hips, she looks at them both, uncertain who to cut down first. Both, she decides, at the same time.

“Look, I don’t know what it is with you two thinking I need either of your egos speaking for me, but I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions, or not making any decision at all. You,” she says, swinging around to Scott, “Do not get to choose for me. And you-” she turns to Dipper, really fixes her stare on him, and falters. 

The formal requirement of Fall Formal had clearly been impressed on Dipper, if his pressed and fitted black slacks and slim cut burgundy blazer were any indication. His hair had been styled again, and Pacifica was beginning to suspect that Mabel or Lilli had taken pity on him and finally taught him how to do it himself. He certainly hadn’t gotten ready at Mabel’s, and after last night, there’s no guarantee Lilli had agreed to help him today. But if she had, then without a doubt she had run her fingers through his hair, setting the curling strands in place, and had slowly buttoned up the dress shirt under his blazer. There’s no thought, no effort, in the sudden switching her brain undergoes: Pacifica sees herself standing in Dipper’s disorderly bedroom, fingers tracing the line between shirt hem and skin, fastening buttons with the care she’ll lack when popping them open hours later. 

She’s screwed, but damned if she won’t be pulled into one of the worst decisions she’s ever made without attempting a fight. It will be some fluke of fate if Pacifica doesn’t fracture at least one of the tenuous connections she’s made in the past months. If it has to happen, she wants to at least have some say in who, how, but the way Dipper is looking at her makes her think she won’t. 

“You…” 

How long has she been silent, stumped between words? Both of them stare at her expectantly.

“You really should find your date.”

The words sound like they’ve been punched out of her. Dipper raises an eyebrow and her heart sinks - he doesn't believe her, not for an instant. He starts to say something, only to be cut off by Scott.

“And if you _decide_ you want to stick with yours, I'll be back in the other room,” Scott says to Pacifica with a frown. There’s more bite in the words he says than how he says them, and the trailing of his hand down her back, across the lace inset that allows his skin to graze hers, lacks the possession it had before. 

To say the silence that follows is simply uncomfortable would be akin to saying the Arctic is simply cold; Pacifica shivers. 

Dipper leans up against a counter, swirling the drink in his hand. She picks a crumb of something off of her sleeve. Refilling her drink is an option, but the open mixers sit on the counter Dipper currently occupies. It would be a good show of her own restraint to walk right up and fill her cup. 

“Do you… want me to...” Dipper starts, “to make you a drink?”

“Yeah, sure.” 

She walks over to pass her cup to him, studiously avoiding any brushing of fingers at the transfer. Without another word Dipper reaches past the line of sodas and grabs a handle of rum and a carton of grapefruit juice. He makes it the way she likes it, the way he’s been making it at parties for the past month. 

“Thanks,” Pacifica says as he hands her cup back. One sip proves it’s perfect: tart, not too strong, and a good excuse to not talk until she can finally get a handle on her words. 

“Lilli’s upstairs, by the way,” Dipper says. He pours a long count of vodka into his own glass, adding to whatever was already in there. “Trey stood Lauren up and then broke up with her over text. Lilli and some of the other girls are on sister watch. Da’sean and Greg have been sent out to bring back ice cream. Do, uh, most major Greek events involve tears at some point in the night?” 

The conversation sticks to neutral ground, safe and comfortable. The kind of conversation friends would have, Pacifica decides as she too leans up against the counter, and they are just friends, after all. 

“It’s pretty par for the course,” she admits with a chuckle. She’s contributed her fair share of tears and dramatics to Greek events. “There’s a certain degree of intensity that comes out of living, dating, and socializing within the same tiny pool of people.”

Dipper nods at the end of her sentence. He rolls his cup between his hands and shifts his attention through the kitchen’s open entrance and into the bustling living room. Whether by intention or chance, no one has come back into the kitchen since the start of Dipper and Scott’s screaming match. She should leave and find Scott.

“Seems to me… that uh…” Dipper loses whatever he was about to say. She looks up at him, curious, as he looks down to her. 

Without warning or prompting he lays a hand on her arm. It must ground him long enough for the words to come out in a rush.

“Seems to me that you’d be better off dating non-Greek.”

His voice rings in her ears and his hand still rests on her arm. Jaw slack, Pacifica gums at words that won't come out. She really, really should leave and find Scott, or go upstairs and help Lilli, or anything.

“Dipper! Look, we can’t be doing this! Just stop!” Pacifica wants to sound firm, but she hears her own voice rise - she’s begging, now. The grain of will she’d been trying to maintain had been lost somewhere along the way, and if he kept going on like this, she was going to fuck up. 

“Has anyone told you tonight that you look incredible?”

“Yes, my date!” she says sharply, ignoring the flush that rolls over her body at his compliment. Dipper rears back - confused, maybe hurt - when she jerks away from his touch. He reaches out again and she bats at his hand. It’s for the best. Pacifica picks up her drink and beelines for the living room, but Dipper crosses the kitchen in three long strides and manages to cut her off. 

His face matches his blazer as he takes a deep breath and says, “I wish you would talk to me about what’s going on.”

“I wish you would leave me alone tonight,” she snaps back. Her heart races in time with the beat from the music in the other room, and shakes her just as hard. Main exit no longer open to her, Pacifica spins around and charges for the door that leads to the back yard. Dipper isn’t able to stop her, but he does follow. 

Without her coat the mid-October air goes straight through her skin, but to go back inside ceases to be an option when Dipper closes the door behind them. The vast back yard is taken up by a few giant trees and a wide, wooden deck that’s gone ignored tonight because of the weather. As such, the only light comes from a single naked bulb right over the kitchen door and from the narrow window in the door itself. 

“Fine, so I leave you alone tonight. And then when I come and try to talk to you tomorrow, what? It’s suddenly going to be all resolved? Or are you going to tell me to leave you alone again?”

“Maybe. Maybe I shouldn’t have to tell you more than once.”

Just outside the door is a rickety wrought-iron bench accompanied by a planter that’s been used as a makeshift ashtray since as long as Pacifica can remember. Dipper drops onto the bench heavily, grunting with her words. She braces herself on one of the deck’s railing, keeping a good distance between them.

“Listen, Northwest, we made a friendship truce, and I don’t think this is how friends talk to one another!” Dipper taps the bottom of his cup against the bench, agitated. She can see him staring at her through the near-dark. 

There is no way they’re not circling around the same point. After last night, Wednesday, after weeks and months of this back and forth, each of them is just waiting for the other to say it. So she says it. 

“You’re right,” she says, “This isn’t how friends talk to one another. This isn’t the kind of thing people who are _just friends_ do.”

Dipper’s head bobs up and down, because it’s impossible to disagree and useless to pretend.

“I want to talk about last night,” he says, voice hard. 

He bows his head, waiting but not watching. Holding his plastic cup with both hands, Dipper stares down into its murky contents like he’s staring down a wishing well. The rim, she notices, has been chewed to an uneven edge. It had to have been an evening-long endeavor. Pacifica finds her gaze drifting to Dipper’s lips. The anemic light that flickers on them through the window of the kitchen door is just enough to highlight the white of his teeth as he worries at his bottom lip. She still hasn't responded.

Dipper runs his thumbs up and down the side of his cup for a moment before lifting it. He takes three, four, five deep chugs, and when he starts to tap out a rhythm along the edge, the sound is louder, hollow. The beats fall in step with the bass of whatever song hums through the walls, a sound Pacifica had drowned out until now. With the return of the music comes the resurgence of voices to her ear - laughter, shouts, off-key singing - all a testament to the number of people packed in the Delta house, people who could come right out of that kitchen door and see them, or overhear the confession at her tongue. She glances to the door.

“It’s not a good time,” she finally says.

The crunch that follows is loud enough to make her jump. Startled, Pacifica whips around to face Dipper and nearly drops her drink. He still clutches his cup in one hand, but he’s slammed it up against the brick of the house. It’s crumpled between his fist and the wall, and she can see the dark trails of whatever concoction he’d been drinking streak down through his fingers. His eyes meet hers and they narrow a fraction. His shoulders rise and fall in spasmodic jerks.

“It’s never the right time, is it?” he grits out. 

Dipper springs to his feet and drops the crushed cup on the ground. His face darkens - likely red, though impossible to tell - and he clenches his jaw. At over six foot, it’s not hard for Dipper to loom over her. He’s toeing the line of crowding her, body six, maybe seven inches from hers, and without thought he rocks up and down, a frantic motion. There's enough room for her to slip away. She doesn't.

“Fine. You don't want to talk about last night. Then let’s talk about Wednesday.”

Pacifica trembles. It's got to be in the 40s, cold enough for her to regret leaving her coat inside, but the words he hurls at her are all heat. After fixating on yesterday for so long, remembering Wednesday night is like looking through a pair of thick, warped glasses: everything on the other side is blurred, and too much time with it starts to give her a headache. But she must have said something in the car that has him clenching his fist at his side.

“I know I was a drunken idiot and you had to come all the way out to pick my sorry ass up,” Pacifica says. It’s vague enough. “Sorry.”

He waves her words off. “I'd never hesitate to do that for you,” Dipper says. It requires no prompting, and shows no hesitation, and Pacifica can feel that warm tension in her chest - the one she’s been trying to beat back down all week - beginning to rise.

“But that’s not what I'm talking about,” he continues, fixing her with a stare. “I'm talking about in the car, right before we got to your dorm. You said you and Scott weren’t a thing, and then you brought up Lilli.”

Pacifica remembers. Her mouth had felt tacky with gin and everything she’d wanted to say instead. She glances up at him and finds his gaze locked on her. Dipper has gone still. The air seems much, much warmer. 

“Yeah,” Pacifica says, “She’s great.”

Dipper nods. “I know,” he says, but he leans in towards her anyway. 

“Anyone would be lucky to get a chance with her, she’s like, the nicest person in the world. And cute, too. Older girl…” Pacifica is babbling, because Dipper is reaching out towards her, settling a hand on her waist. She forgets how to breathe. This is happening. Even with every time she’d tried to lash out, derail the train, it’s still happening.

“Why did you bring her up in the car?” Dipper murmurs. For as loud as the party inside is getting, she feels like his voice has completely taken over her brain, because it’s the only thing other than her heartbeat that she can hear.

“You brought up me and Scott.”

“I did. You said you two weren't together.”

“We’re not.”

One of her hands is on Dipper’s shoulder. It had to have happened at some point while they were talking, but how or when is a bit of a mess and she can’t quite get her thoughts together with their bodies practically touching.

“And then you told me it was ‘okay to admit it’ - I assumed you meant admit my feelings for Lilli.

She nods weakly. She is acutely aware of Dipper’s other hand, which now rests just at the juncture between her neck and her shoulder, the same place Scott had kissed her before. Dipper’s touch sears it away.

“Lilli’s not the one I want to be here with, Pacifica. And I think you feel the same way. About Scott.”

This is a bad idea, with one thousand disastrous consequences. This is the thing she told Mabel she was going to get over, to leave in the dust. Dipper gently tugs her against him, and she follows. If anyone were to come out, to see them-

“Mabel told you,” Pacifica says, stalling for time. She’s got to focus, but Dipper bows his head and presses his forehead to hers.

“Told me what?” he asks, and his confusion sounds genuine. 

“How I feel about you,” Pacifica breathes. It’s a shock that he can even hear her, but the moment the words are out he tenses and squeezes her hip. He’s close, and Pacifica can smell on him spice and _heat_.

“No, you said it yourself. We’re not ‘just friends’. So,how do you feel about me?”

“It’s not a good time,” she says instead. His face dips towards hers - she feels the brush of his lips at the corner of her mouth when he says, “It’s never the right time, is it?”

And as if to prove his point, Pacifica presses her lips to his.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank my amazing friends and support squad who helped me through this beast, and if you get the chance, you should check out the wonderful stuff they do. Cori (Whiggity), Katie (LynnLarsh), Kim (Kimpernickel), Rebecca, you guys made this chapter happen!
> 
> Feel free to drop by, chat, or rage at me: brettanomycroft.tumblr.com
> 
> THANKS AGAIN I LOVE YOU

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to check me and my silly Bill doodles out on tumblr:
> 
> brettanomycroft.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you!


End file.
